


The Sins of the Fathers

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon - Engaging gap-filler, Characters - Family Dynamics, Characters - Good use of minor character(s), Characters - Well-handled emotions, General, Years of the Trees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2007-05-27
Packaged: 2018-03-23 13:12:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 48
Words: 37,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3769724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My take on the Fall of the Noldor as family saga, focussing on Indis and her daughters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The City on the Shadowmere

'[H]e landed on the elven-strands

of silver sand and yellow gold

beneath the Hill of Ilmarin,

where glimmer in a valley sheer

the lights of towering Tirion,

the city on the Shadowmere.'

JRR Tolkien, 'The Treason of isengard'

Year of the Trees 1140

She was the beautiful child with the golden curls, leaning over the marble parapet of the Mindon Eldaliéva to get a better view, just as if she had inherited that unashamed and almost sensual enjoyment of life which so annoyed her in her mother, Ingië, sister of Ingwë. Standing on the summit of the Mindon was like being on top of the world, until you turned and saw Taniquetil pointing skywards to the north. But Indis did not look that way. Instead she peered down into the Square of the King, spread out at her feet like a map. There all the people were crowded together to see the ceremony; but none of them had such a view as Indis!

Beyond the Square, the city of Tirion fell away, sparkling with newness, to the outer wall. Observers on the Mindon-top could actually see right over this and even glimpse part of the Shadowmere, the long and foam-fringed inlet of the sea that crept right up to the golden feet of Tuna, surrounded by dark woodland.

"Pretty, isn't it?"

" _Mother!_  Pretty! It's more than pretty!"

"If you say so, darling! What a little fusspot you are! Isn't she a little fusspot, Rilmo?"

"Yes, dear."

Ingwë, who was not only the king of the Vanyar but also Indis' favourite person in the world, called his beloved only sister a character. Indis took this to mean that Ingië had a low sense of humour and a loud voice, which she was fond of imposing upon other people. She was an agonising embarrassment to her daughter.

Rilmo was Indis' father, tall, lean, flaxen-haired and in total thrall to his wife. His seeming subservience was only the outward expression of a consuming love; but Indis who was too youthfully self-absorbed to understand this sometimes came close to hating him for his meekness.

In fact, it was to Rilmo and his official title of 'Keeper of the Lamp' that Indis owed her privileged position at the summit of the great tower, opposite the enormous palace of Tirion that her uncle had designed as his royal residence when he had still imagined that his home would lie in the new city. Rumoured to contain 144 rooms, it had taken eight Years in the building, during which time its creator had of course decided to take up residence in Valinor. This architectural masterpiece would now pass, along with his new responsibility, to Ingwë's successor as ruler of Tirion.

And now the crowd on the palace side of the square was parting before a dark-haired Elda dressed in blue, as Ingwë and Malwë, his queen, came forth from under the Mindon to meet him; their heads shone gold in the light of Laurelin. Malwë cradled Ingwion, her infant son, but Ingwë held a plain staff of pinewood. The latter seemed to have the greater effect upon the spectators.

A hush fell in the square as Ingwë held it out to the dark-haired other. The ceremony was no less solemn for being newly invented, the product of a young people making up a culture as they went along and in love with their own creation. There were no time-honoured traditions; there was only Finwë, King of the Noldor, taking on the rule of Eldamar with a plain piece of wood that was nonetheless wonderful, because it had been cut in the forests of a magical land.

It was Indis' first feast; she can still remember the exhilaration of the beauty of the clothes and the music and the fine food. Sometimes it seems to blur into all the other official celebrations that came after, time foreshortened in retrospect, so that her life in those Years seems nothing more than a succession of elegant occasions. It is hard to believe in herself and the other players in this pageant as truly independent agents with wills of their own. When she considers those festivities, she sees them rather as innocent painted dolls, falling down the Years, encumbered with no real idea of the seriousness of the world.

The feast was held in the great palace atrium, with its mosaic floor and graceful furniture. Indis could tip back her head and study the beauty of the vaulted ceiling until she felt rather dizzy. Even the stones of it seemed to glory in their own newness. She could feel their voices in her blood.

She was brought back to earth by the sound of two voices. One was that of Malwë, more cultured than Ingië's, wishing the new king luck.

The other was one of the most beautifully modulated that Indis had ever heard: that of Finwë Noldóran. Now Indis had an interest in Finwë. She hoped that it would not be too rude to stare at him on this celebration of his accession, because, having once rested her eyes on his face, she found it hard to tear them away. He was easily the most handsome  _nér_ in the atrium.

"To tell you the truth," he was saying, "I really feel guilty. All this glory should belong to your husband!"

"Nonsense!" Malwë retorted. "Our new arrangement is the most harmonious that could be devised. It would not be ideal to have two leaders in one city, surely?"

"Perhaps you are right," Finwë sighed. "But how we will miss you, who are left behind!"

Indis nodded to herself; even before his departure, she was already missing Ingwë. Yet she could not honestly say that she would have liked to be going with him to Valinor. Tirion was to her a place of the highest excitement and adventure. Over the last eight Years, it had swept her up into its budding life to such an extent that she found it hard to believe in her own existence before coming to Aman. She was young and easily adaptable and had left Cuiviénen before she was five Years old; and even the hardships of the Great March seemed a very long way away.


	2. The Fire of their Colours

[I]f but one fragment of the broideries of Míriel were seen in Middle-earth it would be held dearer than a king's realm; for the richness of her devices and the fire of their colours were as manifold and as bright as the wealth of leaf and flower and wing in the fields of Yavanna.'

JRR Tolkien, 'Morgoth's Ring'

It was some twelve Days later that Finwë's butler brought him the news that a young girl had come to the palace to see him.

"A young girl?"

"Yes, my lord."

"How young a girl? What does she want?"

"Perhaps forty, lord. As for what she wants - she says she wants to see the king personally."

"Yes, but why?"

"That she will not say. I should say she was of a stubborn disposition, my lord."

"Well, show her in!"

As he waited to receive the mysterious young person, Finwë considered the mystery of her identity. It had occurred to him that she might be Ingwë's little niece, who must be forty by now. He had always been rather fond of that child; but what possible reason could she have for coming here like this?

The girl - she was not Indis - came in, shortly followed by Finwë's butler, whom she appeared to have overtaken in the hall. The butler looked apologetically at Finwë.

"Leave us," he said, smiling to show that it did not matter about the breach of protocol. The butler was a friend from the old Days in the Middle-earth, whose advice Finwë valued rather more highly than that of some of the lords in his council.

Soon he was alone with the young woman and able to look at her at greater length. She was both more beautiful and, as he judged, significantly older than Indis. The butler had been misled by her size, for she was remarkably small and slender. But her large, dark eyes were not those of a forty-Year-old. They held his own without the slightest sign of shyness or awe. Her most distinctive feature was her flowing silver hair, surely the mark of a Telerin mother.

"Well?" he said. "What do you want, my dear?"

"I want to show you this, my king."

What she held out was a small square of cloth, about six inches wide, covered with the most fantastically intricate embroidery. It depicted Tirion upon Tuna, with the Pelori, singing with whiteness, showing behind. The stitches were controlled and almost unbelievably tiny; the blue thread of the sea seemed to glisten and move. About all was a border of leaves and flowers, stylised yet almost starting from the page with reality.

"But this is marvellous! Little one, did you work this by yourself?"

"Of course, my king!"

"What is your name?"

"Míriel Serindë - and if you don't mind my mentioning it, lord, this sampler could be yours for a mere five silver pieces."

Finwë burst out laughing:

"Five! I will give you ten, if you tell me where you live. I may have other work for you."

Míriel told him her address, which was in a part of the city west of the Great Market.

"And do you live alone?"

"No, lord; with my mother."

"This is" - his lips curving into a smile - "rather small. Do you see yourself working on a larger canvas in the future?"

Míriel looked at him; and suddenly there was something rather young in her eyes after all.

"I have often wanted to, but we cannot afford the materials."

Finwë laughed again.

"Is that all? Then, clearly, I must give you something to pay for them. Would fifty silver pieces do for now?"

He rather liked her not obsequiously thanking him. Like a little princess, she seemed to accept the gift as entirely her due, watching attentively with those dark eyes as he counted the money into a bag for her. After she was gone, he went over to the window and looked out over the city.

_Míriel Serindë._ What a sweet name! What a charming girl!


	3. A Promising Business Arrangement

Míriel was back at the palace again after less than twenty Days, carrying a piece of embroidery, about three feet square, rolled up and wrapped in a cloth, under her arm. It depicted the Two Trees.

"Entirely my own work, lord!"

"I'm sure it is," Finwë said earnestly. "I suppose you want me to buy this too, do you?"

Míriel did not directly answer the question. Instead, she said this:

"What a comfortable room you have here, my king!"

"I find it answers my purposes."

"Don't you think it would be even more comfortable if you were to commission me to adorn it with embroideries?"

"Would it really?"

"Oh, yes! After that I could branch out into the atrium. You have such a lovely  _big_  atrium here, with that beautiful mosaic floor. I'm sure I could design some embroideries with matching themes. Matching the themes of the mosaic, I mean. And then of course there are all the other rooms - 144, isn't it?"

"Oh, ah?" Finwë managed. He was hypnotised by the spectacle of the girl's glowing eyes and rapid speech. She was not thinking of pecuniary gain: that he could see. Here was a craftswoman - no, an  _artist_ \- who lived for her work. Even on her first visit, she must have seen the walls of his palace as a blank canvas to be filled. Perhaps that was what all walls were to her.

Finwë appreciated this little woman's remarkable gift the more as a craftsman himself. Rather than an embroiderer, he was a maker and an arranger of words. He did not see words in quite the same way as later rhetoricians. They were a solid reality to him. He had personally invented very many now in common use; but this was only the beginning. The world was a place of near-limitless potential. Finwë could imagine no end to the things in need of names, or to his delight in the exercise of this power.

"Well? What do you think?" she said.

He laughed.

"How could I refuse?"

Finwë celebrated the birth of this arrangement by inviting Míriel to take a glass of wine with him a few Days later. He also invited his neighbours of the House of Ingwë:

"What a lovely opportunity for you to meet someone of your own age, dear!" Ingië cried when she received the invitation.

This was one of her more infuriating obsessions. As a child on the Great March, Indis had learned from Ingwë how to think like an adult, that is rationally. Naturally, she did not mix well with other children, most of whom, even among the Vanyar, had been carefully shielded from rational thinking by their loving parents. She was perfectly content and fulfilled in the company of adults. It was only Ingië who yearned to place her among the heavy breathers and slow thinkers.

It was something of a relief to Indis when Míriel turned out to be late. It meant that she could sit quietly and watch Finwë, untroubled by the overtures of some strange girl with whom she was expected to be friendly, merely because, by a pure chronological accident, they happened to be of a similar age. At least Finwë did not patronise her. He rarely showed any signs of being conscious of her existence; but when he  _did_ , he never treated her like a toddler.

When Míriel eventually came, she did not apologise for her lateness. (Finwë had learned better than to expect anything of the sort.) She only went over and sat down on the empty chair beside Indis.

"Hello," she said. "Do you like embroidery?"


	4. A Perfect Moment

'For still there are so many things

that I have never seen:

in every wood in every wood in every spring

there is a different green.'

JRR Tolkien, 'The Fellowship of the Ring'

1142

It was not quite clear to Indis in what way she and Míriel had come to be 'friends'. Of course it was all her mother's fault. Ingië saw the world in a way of her own, which bore little relationship to reality. This is not unusual. The only difference was that Ingië, obstreperous monster that she was, had a way of bringing the world into line with her ideas. The world usually went along with this. There were actually people in it who were charmed by her frankness.

They certainly had nothing in common, Míriel and Indis. Indis had never even tried embroidery. Over Míriel's works she oohed and aahed, appreciating the beauty in these things, but in truth they puzzled her. Why would any Elda spend such time and effort on mere illustrations of things that might be freely seen in the original?

Come to that, why marr the pure grace of Finwë's walls with these complications of thread and cloth? Why cage in the air?

Míriel did not seek out Indis' company or anyone else's, but she did not much mind if Indis was forced by Ingië to visit her: at her home, or, when she was working there, at the palace. It gave her a not unwelcome opportunity to talk.

Míriel liked to talk, not for conversation's own sake but because her mouth yearned to join in the action of her fingers. Working alone, she would sing without words. But it was just as good to meditate aloud upon her favourite colours.

"Mauve, I do like mauve. The colour of young rainclouds, so pretty! Goes with silver too. Do you like mauve, Indis?"

"Yes. Moderately."

"I like green as well, of course, so glorious, so various, so natural, somehow. A bit too various, actually. Have you ever visited the house of Aulë? Hundreds of trees, every one a different green! I could never find thread in all those colours. Not in a hundred Years."

Míriel's brilliant mind was not in this tosh, of course. Míriel's mind was in few of her daily activities. Her body ate, drank, slept, spoke, relieved itself. Her spirit wove subtle patterns on the linen of her thought.

They were sitting in the room of the palace that Finwë had given Míriel to work in. It had been a pleasant room on the first floor, with a large window looking out over the palace garden. Míriel had turned it into a mess. Discarded needles and odd bits of thread littered the floor. Half-finished pieces of embroidery, rolled up or on frames, had been pushed carelessly against the wall. Indis never entered the room without experiencing an almost uncontrollable urge to tidy up. She had tried, once or twice, but Míriel complained that she could not find anything afterwards. Indis was silently amazed that she could find anything before.

Finwë came into the room, as he sometimes did, unexpectedly, although Indis  _most certainly did not_ come to the palace in the hope of seeing him. She looked up, smiling. Míriel's eyes remained locked on her work.

"Ah, Indis! Are you distracting my little  _serindë_?"

"I trust not, my lord!"

As he returned Indis' smile, so she sent it back again to him on wings of admiration. This was a perfect moment. Like all such, it did not last very long. Finwë moved over to Míriel to look over her shoulder at the piece of cloth on the frame before her. Indis could see only the crown of his bent head, his black hair falling smoothly. Míriel was hidden behind the frame.


	5. Daydreaming

1146

Indis' room in the Mindon was two floors down from the top. It was large and circular, its roundness marred only by the spiral staircase that wound up through the whole tower. This was walled off, with a small door opening on to each floor. Its effect on the shape of the room was as a bite taken out of an apple. The walls was not decorated in any way; their whiteness made a space for Indis to think in.

At the moment, she was lying on her bed and gazing dreamily at the ceiling. She and her parents had recently returned from a visit to Ingwë on Taniquetil, and seeing little Ingwion always made her think of babies. She was growing up now: almost old enough to have one of her own.

Her thoughts hovered lovingly around a boy-child with Finwë's black hair and mischievous smile. And then there was that look Finwë had when he talked to Ingië, secretly laughing at her eccentric manner from behind a mask of excessive politeness. Indis' child would have that; and through this point of connection she would have more love for both him and his father.

With such clarity did she see him, her clever and beautiful boy, playing beneath the silver tree of Yavanna in the Square of the King, that she had to get up and go over to the window. Of course there were no children to be seen; only the starshine of Míriel Serindë's hair, moving towards the Mindon.

Indis experienced some considerable irritation. Míriel never came to visit her at home! What did she mean by coming  _now_? It had been such a lovely daydream; and she would never get it back after the other girl had talked at her for half an Hour.

But she sat up and arranged her expression into dignified politeness as she waited. Ingwë had taught her the importance of courtesy. Real courtesy, that is, which is the same as ordinary politeness, but underlaid by a genuine belief in the worthwhile nature of the other person. It was sometimes rather difficult for Indis to believe in the worthwhile nature of Míriel, but she always did her best.

Míriel came in without knocking, as was her custom; but she found her friend sitting demurely in the window, not sprawled on the bed. Not that she would have taken any notice if things had been otherwise. Míriel's observational skills were mysterious and specialised. She could better examine the petals of a flower than the expression on another's face.

Indis, on the other hand, although still at the stage where she was more interested in the contents of her own head than in anything in the outside world, could not help noticing the other girl's unusual excitement. No sooner was Míriel through the door to the staircase than she had thrown herself on to the window-seat and taken both Indis' hands in her own delicate little white ones.

"Ah, Indis! I have such news, you will never guess!"

"No," Indis said. "What?"

It was not easy to remain annoyed; not while there was in the girl's dark eyes that something of innocence or holy madness or simple otherness which would always protect her from real dislike.

Míriel leaned forward to whisper in her companion's ear.

" _Finwë and I are to be betrothed!"_


	6. The Fire Within

1157

Míriel was dancing with Finwë on the grass of Ezellohar, between the Two Trees. There was something odd about the Trees. They were not themselves. Rather, they were the stylised versions that Míriel herself had developed and placed in the background of many of her embroideries. She could recognise the gently curving branches, each bearing exactly three flowers or fruits, now made three-dimensional and real.

She tried to point this out to Finwë; but he only laughed and urged her to go on dancing, although it was important about the Trees. She could seem to make him understand the significance of it. He only wanted to dance.

Now she and Indis were walking together through the streets of Tirion. This was odd, as Indis had emigrated to Taniquetil, with her parents, in 1149. She too would not understand about the Two Trees having been replaced by Míriel's copies. She herself had something that she wanted to explain: something long and complicated. Míriel was trying to listen, only her mind did not seem to be working properly. A gentle warmth had filled her and was lifting her away from Indis and into the air.

She was on Ezellohar again, alone: her husband had vanished. She walked or floated over to Laurelin, but her fingers slid over the smoothness of the trunk and the warmth was becoming a scorching heat. As she cried out for Finwë in this pain, a curtain of darkness descended over the whole scene, so that she could see nothing. Only the afterglow of the light of Laurelin burned brighter and brighter before her eyes as the heat consumed her body from within-

"Míriel, wake up! Míriel!"

Slowly her eyes focused on the lines of his face, lit by the silver rays of Telperion. She was in her own bed in the palace. Finwë was leaning on an elbow over her.

"Ah," she said, "why did you not come when I called for you?"

"Because it was only a dream, my darling. I don't believe you're properly awake!"

Finwë sat up in bed and looked at his wife. She glared tearfully back at him, looking far more formidable than was warranted by her size.

"Damn it, why didn't you understand what I was saying to you?"

It was some time before she would allow him to comfort her, gathering her into his arms, kissing her delicate eyelids, whispering lover's promises into her shell-like ears until she pressed her face into his shoulder and slept. Finwë lay awake for a while, watching the slight movements of her breathing, wrapped in the soft and floating smell of her hair. He was filled with an almost unbearable superfluity of protective love.

Finwë and Míriel had been married for three Years. They were deliriously happy. At least, Finwë was. He knew for a fact that Míriel was happy, but whether she was as ecstatic as he was another question. He was not sure whether it was possible for anyone to feel what he felt. It sometimes seemed almost indecent to have so much joy concentrated in one so unworthy. After all, what had he done to deserve Míriel? Why should those dark eyes smile on him?


	7. Till Death Us Do Part

"This is an unhappy chance, beloved! Our son will soon tread the green grass of Tuna and laugh in the light of Laurelin. You should be with him."

"Unhappy it is indeed, and I would weep, if I were not so weary. But hold me blameless in this, as in all that may come after. Rest now I must. Farewell, dear lord!"

Some seventy Days having passed without any improvement in her condition, Finwë's beloved was going, on the advice of Manwë, to seek healing in the gardens of Lórien. She would be travelling slowly, by cart, with many pauses. Her mother was going with her. The journey had been planned in some detail. Now there was only the ritual ordeal of parting to go through.

"You do want to go, Míriel?"

Given half a chance, he would beg her to stay. Finwë had known other partings; had lost his dearest friend to the shadows of Middle-earth's trees. This separation sent cold fingers of uneasiness along his spine.

But Míriel did not intend to give him a chance.

"Yes. I  _must get away_ , don't you see, Finwë?"

"You will return in good health."

The words were almost a prayer.

"Yes. Of course."

No good wife lies to her spouse, even by omission or default. Míriel was aware of this, as a fact around which lives were organised in some parallel dimension far away; but all thought was consumed in the agonised mist of her exhaustion. Her mind was focused upon a single point: the prospect of escaping the burden that weighed upon her.

Míriel lay asleep upon the soft grass of Lórien, beneath a silver willow that watched its reflection in a silver pool. Her dark eyes were open; she had allowed some of the maidens among the Vanyar who served Lórien to put flowers in her hair. Lying there, she looked lovely beyond words, Ulwë thought.

Ulwë was Míriel's mother, a widow of the Great March. She was not a bad woman; she was merely a very ordinary one, such as are found in every community of the Teleri. She did love her daughter, but Míriel's beauty and brilliance and stubbornness were a great mystery to her and always had been.

In fact, Ulwë had never understood the people whom she had taken for herself, nor even her husband. Him she had loved for his curiosity and his passion for the new; but a creature of Melkor had taken him in the passes of the Misty Mountains. Now she watched over the recumbent form of their only child with the attentiveness of a mother bird.

All the same, in the pervading stillness and dreaminess, it was quite a long time before she became aware that Míriel's chest was no longer rising and falling.


	8. The Golden Age

1213

" _Amma,_ " said a small voice. Two small hands clasped themselves around Indis' leg.

"What is it,  _selde_?"

"Do you love me?"

"Yes," Indis said, lifting the child into her lap. It was beginning to be a stretch; Írien Lalwendë was more solid than she looked. "Yes, my darling, of course I love you!"

Lalwendë peered quizzically up into her mother's face. She revered Indis' loveliness and grace as she would a Valië, unaware that the promise of great beauty was already apparent in the unformed lines of her own face. It was not quite the same kind of beauty. Lalwen at ten Years was an exuberant, round-cheeked, almost chubby urchin with a mass of tangled hair of an exquisite deep honey colour.

They were all lovely beyond measure to Indis. Lalwen was the baby of the family. Nolofinwë - the second oldest and second youngest, his mother's darling, Lalwen's private god, Findis' partner in crime of his older sister and the irritation of Fëanáro - grew more like his father every Year. Only his eyes were of Indis: a deep and uniform grey.

Findis, the firstborn, her name a weird combination of  _Finwë_ and  _Indis_ , was dark-haired too, belonging to a different school of beauty again. A strange child, Findis, not shy, never shy, but reserved to the last degree and fiercely independent. Seeming always several Years older than she actually was, already becoming a focus of male attention, she would as soon have flown around the palace atrium on wings of gold as she would have gone around asking people if they loved her or not.

" _Amma?"_

"Yes, Lalwen?"

"Are you  _sure_ you love me?"

"Yes, little bee."

Indis loved her children fiercely, tenderly, madly. Later she would look back on this time, while they were still subject to her authority and never far from the circle of her arms, as the golden summit of her life. And yet they were only the crown of the many blessings that had fallen to her lot. She was much loved, not only by her husband, who doted on her publicly, but by most of the people of Tirion, for her naturally regal bearing made her an excellent queen.

Though she was still young, her adolescence in Tirion and on Taniquetil had come to seem almost as distant as her childhood in Middle-earth, eclipsed by the delights of the present. Sometimes she would stand by the Mindon, gazing up at its height and trying to imagine herself inside, lying on her bed and dreaming of all that she now possessed. There had been no warden since her parents' departure for Taniquetil; the office, indeed, had never been more than ceremonial. Even during Rilmo's time, the lamp had really been maintained by three servants, who now did their job just as well without him.

As for the city of the Vanyar on Taniquetil, it was as it had been from its beginning, beautiful and unchanging almost as the halls of Manwë that overshadowed it. Since Indis' return to Tirion, the only events of note to occur there had been the marriage of her cousin Ingwion and the birth of his little sister, Ilmarien, a playmate of Nolofinwë's, though she was nearer in age to Findis.

Indis often contemplated the fact that, if it had not been for that one meeting on the mountain, she would probably never have left the house of Ingwë. This filled her with confusion and a vague sense of the need for her to make the most of her impossible good fortune, never feeling resentment for such little unavoidable things as the presence of Míriel's tapestries on every wall of the palace, for example.

So when they made love, if ever Finwë cried out the name of another, she pretended not to hear, just as she pretended not to see Fëanáro's continued dislike for her. It made little difference, after all. Her stepson was married now and had a house of his own.

Finwë was one of the many in the city who had felt, not affronted, but faintly bewildered by this marriage, bearing in mind his son's extremely young age and the fact that his proposed bride was neither highborn - her father was a coppersmith - nor beautiful.

Indis for her part could see no mystery in Fëanáro's choice. What mattered most to him were his twin obsessions with exploration and the crafts of the hand, both of which the young woman shared in full measure. As for looks, well, Nerdanel of Eldamar-outside-Tirion was not ugly; she was merely not immediately beautiful or pretty. Nor, seemingly, was the girl herself troubled by her appearance. She looked out at the world without shame or artifice. Indis liked that.


	9. A Spreading Stain

1230

Like both of his older brothers, the fourth child of Finwë and Indis was named after his father. Like them, the new baby would be called by his mother-name for the first few Years of life, before the father-name could be modified to reflect the natural predispositions of the one to whom Indis had given the name  _Ingoldo_. In Fëanáro's case, the modified  _Curufinwë_ had never superseded the mother-name. Even Nolofinwë was still on occasion 'Arakáno' in the heart of his mother and to some extent in that of his adoring younger sister.

Lalwen did not enjoy the  _essecarmë_. She had never liked large assemblies; indeed, she was not particularly enamoured of other people in general, apart from those belonging to her own immediate family. (Them she was passionately interested in.) It was an unfortunate turn of fate which had seen her born into a royal family, whose griefs and joys must necessarily be shared by many others besides themselves. The advent of Finwë Ingoldo was celebrated in the palace atrium by several hundred guests.

To complete the horror, Lalwen had lost Nolofinwë.

Nolofinwë's company was everything that made life bearable on these dreary public occasions. The two of them would creep around the edges of the atrium, hiding behind Míriel's tapestries to spy on the guests. Nolofinwë could think of something amusing to say about every one.

Without him, Lalwen, forlorn, had decided to drown her sorrows in red wine at the nearest buffet table. The idea thrilled her with the excitement of the forbidden. She was allowed to drink wine on her begetting-Day, but only when it had been well-watered under the watchful eye of her mother. This would be something different: an adventure, if one enjoyed without Nolofinwë.

There was only one full decanter left on the table. Lalwen made a grab for it, but was pre-empted by a tall young woman who cast her a distinctly unfriendly look as she selected a glass. Apparently she had arrived first.

Lalwen amused herself while she waited her turn in wondering what Nolofinwë would make of her rival. She was about his age, tall, black-haired, well-groomed but rather cheaply-dressed: probably some minor aristocrat.

This individual now began, in fits and starts, with the ridiculously exaggerated care of a naturally clumsy person, to pour herself a glass. When about a tablespoonful of red liquid was swilling about in the base, she paused to add a few drops of water, still holding the decanter of wine in a most possessive manner, and to taste the mixture. She then frowned and added a little more water. This process was repeated until the liquid was an interesting shade of pale pink, at which point the girl returned the decanter to the table. Lalwen snatched it up.

"So," she said, "in fact, you didn't want it at all? You were just holding on to it to spite me?"

The older girl blinked at her silently, confused by the vivid force of this righteous little girl's personality, in what Lalwen could only consider a positively half-witted manner. She stepped a little closer:

"You finished using this decanter some time ago?" she suggested.

At this point, Nolofinwë, who had been searching for his sister in the dense crowd ever since he had first lost sight of her on the other side of the atrium, stepped up behind her and touched her on the shoulder. She immediately dropped the decanter, which smashed on the mosaic floor.

An enormous stain as of blood had blossomed on the strange guest's shabby gown. For a moment all three of them were still, before the stranger drew herself up to her full and considerable height and prepared to be angry, while Nolofinwë simultaneously began to apologise for his sister.

"Of course we will pay for your gown to be cleaned," he was saying. "For a new gown. Anything you desire." He paused. "Might I ask your name, lady?"

"Anairë. Daughter of Valandur."

"And a very charming name too, if I may say so. - I am Nolofinwë Finwion."

The effect of these words on Anairë was remarkable. Pale-faced, she started as if Nolofinwë had struck some terrible blow at her heart. The hand that she had extended in order to take his hung limp at her side; she looked half-disposed actually to hide it behind her back. Hastily, she bowed to both of them, muttering that she had had no desire to cause any offence.

"I think it is my sister who has caused offence to you," Nolofinwë laughed, taking her arm. "Come! You can borrow one of my other sister's dresses. It would be a shame for you to have to go home and change..."

And he bore away the dazed Anairë, who was still murmuring something about Not Wishing to Cause Inconvenience as he tracked down Findis' maid in the shifting throng.

Lalwen was left alone and more forlorn than ever, amusing though it had been to witness that moment of discomfiture in her late rival. She decided to go and see her mother.

Indis had retreated to the lying-in room to feed Finwë Ingoldo. Seeing her younger daughter at the door, she smiled and patted the bed beside them, so Lalwen jumped up, leaned her head against the bare left breast and watched the baby suck. She could hear her mother's heartbeat.

"Won't I be the baby any more?" she whispered after a short time.

"You are all my babies."

"But Arakáno is your favourite."

"Good mothers don't have favourites,  _selde_."

"Findis is the eldest, Ingoldo is the baby now, so where am I?"

"In the middle!"

"Mother, I hate Nolofinwë being charming to young women."

"It's very natural, darling."

"It's not as though he ever bestows his favour on an even faintly interesting object. He seems to be drawn to the dullest specimens possible."

"What strange things you say, Lalwendë!"

"Mother, I don't want to go back to the party."

"All right, dear."

"Can I stay with you?"

"Of course."


	10. A Nice Family Party

1251

Nelyafinwë Maitimo, the first child of Fëanáro and Nerdanel, was such a sweet two-Year-old that Lalwen was often tempted to steal him. On the occasion of his third begetting-Day, she bought such a ridiculous number of presents for him that Nolofinwë had to help her carry them to their half-brother's house. His wife sniffed at this; but Anairë was herself carrying a grandchild of Finwë and had a right to be sceptical about Maitimo's charms.

This must be one of the nicest things about childlessness, Lalwen thought: to be able to truly appreciate other people's children. She knew already that she was going to love Nolofinwë and Anairë's child just as much as she loved Maitimo. Her mind played with the idea of an ever-expanding family tree, herself in the middle, pouring impartial love upon scores of nephews and nieces.

To Lalwen's incredulity and consternation, the spark of interest exchanged between Nolofinwë and Anairë at the  _essecarmë_ of their younger brother had not, as she had expected, died out on the Day of its birth. On the contrary, it had rapidly grown to make such a blaze that Nolofinwë's charming attentions were soon limited to one young woman alone.

Of course Lalwen loved Anairë for her brother's sake. In fact, she had lived with them throughout the seven Years of their married life so far, gladly forsaking her status as a daughter in the bosom of her parents for that of a sister-in-law in another woman's house. Her decision to do so had not been universally popular. Finwë complained that the palace was silent and desolate without her. Anairë, however, had upheld Nolofinwë in his insistence that their beloved sister was welcome in their home.

Nonetheless, for all this determined well-wishing, Lalwen would never fully be able to comprehend Nolofinwë's love and need of Anairë. Behind all outward differences, there was between them a simple and complete understanding that would always be outside her ken. Their hearts beat as one.

"Hello, Uncle Nolo, Aunt Anairë. Thank you for coming, Aunt Lalwen."

Maitimo himself, a very small and a very regal figure, was at the door to meet them. The golden light called coppery tints out of his thick brown hair. Lalwen was overcome. Dropping her various parcels on the steps of Fëanáro's house, she knelt to crush his fledgeling's body into he arms:

"Oh, you darling, darling,  _darling_  little thing!"

Nolofinwë laughed, a little uneasily, as Maitimo, with an air of offended dignity, detached himself from his young aunt. She made a delighted clucking sound as she followed him down the hallway.

Finwë and Indis, with Findis and the little Arafinwë Ingoldo, had already arrived for the party; Nerdanel was showing them to their seats around a table on the verandah. She waved to the three latecomers as they emerged from the house.

"Welcome, all of you! Do sit down. Have a glass of wine - no, Nelyo,  _not_ you - not even on your begetting-Day!"

Maitimo pouted exquisitely, but Lalwen made him laugh by perfectly mimicking his expression.

Nolofinwë was silently appalled to see Fëanáro pulling up a chair beside his own. He wondered if there was any polite way in which he could avoid making conversation with his brother. Unfortunately, Lalwen, his neighbour on the other side, believed that it was good for them to talk together. She was moreover occupied with unpacking the ludicrously expensive gifts, each totally inappropriate for a third begetting-Day, that he had carried for her.

"Amazing, to think what a difference two Years make," Fëanáro said. Nolofinwë had no idea to what he was referring and could only look at him with an expression of bovine stupidity.

It was not that Nolofinwë disliked his half-brother; it was that he could never find a word to say to him, as if Fëanáro exuded some dark mystification that settled gently upon Nolofinwë's brain and robbed him of cogent speech and thought.

He had been known to specially prepare witty comments before an audience with Fëanáro; but if such remarks did not dry upon his tongue, their places taken by utter inanities, they would turn out beneath his brother's piercing eye to be nonsense and hideously unfunny, the words of a babbling child.

Fëanáro was waiting for him to speak. It occurred to Nolofinwë that his brother had probably been referring to Maitimo, and that, even if it was not so, anything he could say would be an improvement on this fiery torment of silence.

He said, "You must be so proud of him."

Fëanáro looked as if this appalling platitude was a satisfaction to him. He replied that they were.

"Oh, are you?" Nolofinwë murmured. He very much wanted to kill himself.

"Aye."

The awful assurance of this dreadful syllable struck terror into Nolofinwë's heart. He could actually feel his blood congealing in horror, at his own conduct as much as anything else.

He said, "How nice. I must congratulate you."

"On the contrary. It is I who must congratulate you."

"I quite agree," Nolofinwë said, idiotically. He had no idea what Fëanáro must think of him. But surely Fëanáro was doing this on purpose!


	11. Ilmarien and Calatindil (I)

'Nonetheless among the Eldar, even in Aman, the desire for marriage was not always fulfilled. Love was not always returned; and more than one might desire one other for spouse. Concerning this, the only cause by which sorrow entered the bliss of Aman, the Valar were in doubt. Some held that it came from the marring of Arda, and from the Shadow under which the Eldar awoke; for thence only (they said) comes grief or disorder. Some held that it came of love itself, and of the freedom of each  _fëa_ , and was a mystery of the nature of the Children of Eru.'

JRR Tolkien, 'Morgoth's Ring'

.~.~.~.~.

1293

Ilmarien Ingwë's daughter had inherited from her mother a deep and sincere interest in clothes. On rising from her bed, she would dress with as much care as if arming herself for a battle, and she never travelled without some five trunks of gowns, so as to ensure a wide choice of weapons. Other people's costume fascinated her, to such an extent that it was easy to imagine, as Lalwen did, that she noticed nothing else about them. This was incorrect.

Lalwen's attitude towards her Vanyarin relatives was one of usually affectionate contempt. There was no real harm in them, but their way of life was too ethereal to be taken seriously. She did not much like Ilmarien, whose company she had shared as a child, together with Findis and Nolofinwë, during long summers on Taniquetil. Possibly the basis of this antipathy was the fact that Nolofinwë delighted in their cousin and had become the family apologist for her apparent shallowness, asserting that she had a warm heart.

Apart from her mania for fashion, many of Ilmarien's personal characteristics, such as her almost unbearable self-confidence and unstoppable volubility, seemed to be derived from her Aunt Ingië. Indeed, it was a private joke between Ingwë and Indis, which neither of them would ever have allowed to reach Ilmarien's ears, that he and his sister had somehow produced the wrong daughters. Perhaps, therefore, she ought to have annoyed Indis too, but in fact Indis was rather fond of her. When Ilmarien wrote of her wish to see Tirion, she did not hesitate to invite her to stay at the palace, subsequently eagerly organising a programme of sightseeing for her visit.

She had decided that Finwë's secretary, Calatindil, should act as Ilmarien's guide to the city. Calatindil was a much loved and trusted member of the household. Lalwen joked that he was practically part of the family, which was ironic, since he was known to be passionately in love with Findis and had been for many Years.

Indis was rather troubled by this relationship. Findis made no secret of the fact that she did not return his devotion; Indis could not honestly accuse her of leading him on, yet she suspected - knowing that Calatindil shared her suspicions - that she secretly enjoyed his attentions. Well, there was nothing to be done about that. Findis could not help the vanity that had always been a defining note of her character. So long as she did not give away this relish of his adoration by any outward sign, she was behaving impeccably. But it seemed a pity that Calatindil's life and youth should be wasted by such a vain love.

.~.~.~.~.

Ilmarien liked Calatindil as soon as she set eyes on him at breakfast on the Day after her arrival in Tirion. He was a handsome and well-built Noldo, with a deep, expressive voice and a theatrical sense that served him well as a tour guide. He also had a rather large mouth, perfect for smiling and singing. Ilmarien could not imagine what had led him to become a secretary. Surely such a gallant temperament was wasted among dusty paper!

After the necessary pleasantries, he suggested that she should begin her exploration of the city with a tour of the palace, a plan to which Ilmarien gave her wholehearted approval:

"Oh,  _yes_! I can't wait to get to know it a little better. I've been here before, of course, but not since I was a child. And to think that it was actually built by my own father! Did you know that?"

"Yes, Lady Ilmarien."

"Oh dear! Were you going to tell me that? Never mind!"

Finwë flinched. Ilmarien had, like Ingië, a very clear, very true, and astonishingly loud voice.

"Perhaps you two had better get on with it, then," he suggested.

"But I must finish eating first, Cousin Finwë!"

"You amaze me," murmured Findis, who appeared to be studying her reflection in the highly-polished breakfast table. "You have already consumed three eggs, three pieces of toast and two and a half rashers of bacon, which seems like quite enough for a slim young woman like yourself!"

"I'm only doing justice to the delicious food here," Ilmarien returned in the tone of bland optimism that had so often served her so well.

"The achievements of your people are indeed remarkable," Calatindil put in, resuming their interrupted conversation.

"Oh, do you really think so?"

"Certainly. However, I am fortunate enough to have some Vanyarin blood myself - my father's paternal grandfather was of the First Clan -, so my opinion may not be entirely unbiased."

"How marvellous! By the way, can you tell me something I've always wanted to know? Is it really true that there are 144 rooms in the palace?"

" _Absolutely,_ " he assured her, "though about fifty are occupied by servants. Others are little bigger than cupboards; it is the symbolism that matters, as the rooms represent the first Quendi. The largest room is the atrium, where most feasts are celebrated."

Ilmarien nodded. She had a way of visibly storing away information, as if it was something of great significance and a source of enormous delight to her, that was most attractive.

Calatindil could not stop himself from looking at her a little more often than was proper. He had often heard complaints about this 'impossible' cousin from Lalwen, but none of the family had ever mentioned that she was very beautiful. No-one had told him how tall she was, or how slender, or how her pale hair hung about her in a silvery cloud.

"The building is constructed around a central garden," he continued, rather quickly. "A popular style of architecture in Tirion."

Ilmarien nodded again. Her light grey eyes were watching him with an expression of rapt intensity.


	12. Ilmarien and Calatindil (II)

Dinner was to be eaten at the house of Finwë's son Fëanáro. As everybody assembled in the atrium for the short walk, Ilmarien was pleased to discover that Calatindil would be of the party, since she had changed for the occasion into one of her more impressive gowns, a gorgeous thing of trembling golden gauze, bestowed upon her by Malwë. She immediately noticed that Indis and Findis were dressed extremely characteristically, in pure white and a dark brown respectively. Findis' dress might have looked shabby if it had not been so beautifully cut out of such expensive cloth.

Fëanáro and Nerdanel were ready to welcome their guests on the patio. Ilmarien was full of admiration for the house, the garden, Nerdanel's dress and her 400-Day-old son, a bouncing blond baby boy who revelled in the name of Tyelkormo. The second son, Kanafinwë Makalaurë, was also present, a skinny, bright-eyed twenty-four-Year-old with whom Ilmarien was delighted, telling him that she had a nephew just his age.

There was no sign of Maitimo, until Nerdanel led the company over to a trestle table which had been set up in the shade of a gnarled apple tree in the enclosed garden. Gesturing to Ilmarien to take a seat, she peered up into the leafy mass of the tree, clapping her hands.

" _Ion_ , we know you're up there! Come down and meet the Lady Ilmarien!"

Laughing, Maitimo slid down the trunk of the apple-tree. He had grown into a very tall, very handsome youth, possessed of a gleaming crop of very white teeth. The reddish glint in his hair had become more noticeable with age.

Nerdanel resumed her attentions to the tree:

"You too, Findekáno! What would your parents think of your manners?"

A second boy descended to terra firma. This one was not quite so impressive: black-haired, not particularly tall for his age, the sort of young person whom one might easily pass on the street. He was Findekáno, the only child of Nolofinwë and Anairë, a close friend of Maitimo and a regular guest of Fëanáro and Nerdanel.

His aunt often joked that he spent more time in their house than his own. This she explained to Ilmarien, whom she knew only very slightly, being foolish enough to imagine that she was in need of being drawn into the conversation, when, of course, she was actually only doing justice to the first course.

"Ah! Youth," Ilmarien responded, "a time of rejecting the certainties of childhood, when we imagine ourselves superior to the restrictions of our elders and betters. Young people are terribly ungrateful, don't you think? They never consider that their parents might have accumulated any wisdom with age, for example. On the other hand, I myself have always been ready to take my mother's advice, especially on clothing, even during the so troubled Years of adolescence. You see, I have a natural talent for recognising the best, and  _Amil_ 's taste is incomparable."

Here Ilmarien paused to take a breath. All the time that she was uttering this stream of mostly harmless platitudes, she was watching Findis and Calatindil from beneath her fine and silvery eyelashes.

The conversation between these two was carried entirely by Calatindil. Findis appeared to find his every remark foolish, irritating and unnecessary, answering them in monosyllables, though some were rather subtle and beautiful compliments. Just now, he was cutting meat off the bone for her. She did not so much submit docilely to this attention as, her eyes set on a corner of the house, give the impression that she had no idea of her suitor's presence.

"What a  _beautiful_  goblet!" Ilmarien cried ecstatically. "Did your husband make it, Nerdanel dear? Yes? And these statues around the pond? Oh, they are  _your_  work? What a gifted family you are, to be sure! I do wish I could make such lovely things, but I suppose I must reconcile myself to being a useless burden on society!"

Nerdanel smiled vaguely. To her surprise, she found that she was rather enjoying this method of converse, wholly alien though it was to her own nature. In general, she spoke little and only to the point. Her acquaintances knew that she meant what she said. This other thing, this polite exchange of hot air by which nothing was challenged or revealed, was more like a game to her than a serious conversation. There was something curiously relaxing about it.


	13. Ilmarien and Calatindil (III)

The next Day Ilmarien put on a dress of the deepest darkest blue velvet. She and her hosts were to dine with Arafinwë and his wife, but first, there was time for Calatindil to give her a brief tour of the city. He began by showing her the Square of the King, the Mindon Eldaliéva and the tree Aldarilion, all of which she admired greatly, especially the Mindon. Indeed, she insisted on going inside, where the three who tended the lamp, overcome with pride at this unexpected visit from the daughter of their sovereign, were delighted to show her around.

"Now," Calatindil said as they came out, "we are presented with a Dilemma. We could take the Road of Pomps to the south. Or you might prefer to see the Alley of Roses to the north."

"They both sound lovely!"

"Ah, wait a moment, lady; you have not yet plumbed the depths of our difficulty. The Square of the Folkwell is very pretty."

"And where is that?"

"Just west of the palace."

"Ah!"

"And then there is the Great Market to the east," Calatindil concluded.

"Well, I'm sure I would love all those places - though I have seen the Road of Pomps before! And we can always come back to the others you mentioned. I think I would like to see the Great Market..."

She loved the Great Market. Immediately, guided by some mysterious internal lodestone, she made her way to the fabric stalls and there immersed herself in looking and comparing for almost a quarter of an Hour, at the end of which time she was draped with purchases on all sides. Of course Calatindil offered to carry them for her.

"No, no," Ilmarien cried. "You can't! There's no need! I won't let you!... Oh really, will you? How kind of you! You see, I can never resist good cloth! Where are we going now?"

They were walking along a beautiful little twitten, where roses grew on trellises along the walls.

"To the Square of the King," Calatindil replied. "We have come in a circle, lady; this is the Alley of Roses."

"Oh! I  _see_!"

They walked in silence for a little while, until Ilmarien asked Calatindil to tell her something interesting. He immediately launched into a discussion of architecture:

"As you will observe, Lady Ilmarien, in Tirion every window looks eastwards towards the sea. As you may also see, the western walls need none - the Tree-light diffuses through the walls."

"How extraordinary! Of what are the western walls made?"

"Its name is not known to me," Calatindil said, hurrying on as Ilmarien looked disappointed: "I believe our craftsmen melt shells in the dew of Telperion to make it."

Ilmarien declared herself impressed, amazed, and fascinated, all at once as, smiling her frank appreciation, she reached out to stroke a white hand along the nearest wall. She was really very beautiful.


	14. A House of Princes

'He is an Elf-lord of a house of princes.'

JRR Tolkien, 'The Fellowship of the Ring'

.~.~.~.~.

1314

Lalwen and Anairë were sitting out in the garden, in a shady bower covered with climbing roses. Anairë was doing her needlework, mending something, Lalwen knew not what; Nolofinwë's socks probably. As if they had no servants! Lalwen herself had no taste for such things, because no patience to do them well. She was skipping through the dull parts of a book of poetry.

For the fourth or fifth time, Lalwen rearranged her position on the wicker seat with a loud creak. Anairë's eyes flashed fire.

"Must you keep doing that?"

"Sorry, dear! I didn't notice you there. That must be because you were sitting so nice and still."

Lalwen's smile was a flash of brilliant light. She drew up her legs and sat hugging them, like a little girl.

Anairë bent her head to her work. She did not look up when she heard Lalwen putting down her book.

"Don't be cross with me, darling."

Anairë made a sort of gesture with her shoulders that might have meant anything.

Lalwen continued: "And where is dear Turukáno on this bright and hopeful Day?"

"Indoors," Anairë said. "Findaráto and Laurefindë came around to play."

"On their own? And Laurefindë two Years behind our Turukáno!"

Anairë did not reply. She and Lalwen were embroiled in an epic dispute on the subject of her fourteen-Year-old son Turukáno. Anairë refused to let him go about the streets of Tirion without one of his family or a servant. Lalwen - of course - supported him against her. It was only a matter of time before Nolofinwë gave in to his sister.

Findaráto was the firstborn of Arafinwë and Eärwen, exactly the same age as Turukáno. Laurefindë was the son of Ilmarien and Calatindil, a rather delicate child who had inherited his mother's golden hair.

"Ilmarien may do what she will with her own son. It is mine to care for mine."

"What about Eärwen?"

"Eärwen is too trusting and goodhearted for her own good."

Lalwen shifted her position again, so that she was half-lying across the chair with her legs dangling over one of the arms. Her white dress had ridden up over her knees. She looked more like a child than ever.


	15. The Healing of Grief

'Behold! Indis the fair shall be made glad and fruitful, who might else have been solitary. For not in death only hath the Shadow entered into Aman... [T]here are other sorrows, even if they be less. Long she hath loved Finwë, in patience and without bitterness.'

JRR Tolkien, 'Morgoth's Ring'

The next Day, Fëanáro had disappeared. This was not at all a rare occurrence. Indeed, it happened every few Days. The boy, in the monstrously cruel way of children, would escape from the palace before anyone else was up, leaving Finwë alone with his anxieties - and with the shade of Míriel.

When her son was not by to enliven the atmosphere, the remembered presence of Míriel became almost unbearable, in this place that she had come to and made beautiful. Her voice whispered in every sound. Her shape moved in every fluttering drapery woven by her small white hands.

Sometimes Finwë would himself leave the palace, taking up an old wandering habit to escape his memories. He would patrol the woods of Eldamar, where only scattered homesteads broke the solitude of the silent trees; or he would visit the fields of Valinor whose produce nourished all the inhabitants of Aman. So it was on this Day.

For Hours he walked through a sea of ripening grain. Sometimes the monotony of the surroundings and the rhythm of his steps would make his mind into a thoughtless blank: this was the desired effect. At other times he would wonder what Fëanáro was doing now. Finwë felt no bitterness at his son's desertion. Never having been a child himself, he nonetheless understood that such innocent thoughtlessness is only the nature of youth.

At last he came to a place where the cultivated fields came to an end. Beyond this point, there was only green grass before one came to the mound of Ezellohar. He could actually see the Two Trees as a bright spot on the margin of the horizon; but he was too weary to take that way now. It was time to return home. Fëanáro was probably there before him.

Later, he did not know why he had turned aside to climb the slopes of Taniquetil. It was by no means the quickest way to return to Tirion. He had simply looked up at the shapely cone of the great mountain and felt a powerful desire to come nearer; one of those urges that belongs to the time before words.

Finwë remembered this time, or remembered that such a time had been. He, above all others, had wantonly destroyed it. Impossible to ask whether he regretted this. It was a thing that had to be; but there had been wordless songs beneath the stars of Cuiviénen.

And were now, on the west face of Taniquetil.

It was a bubbling song, a sound and a promise of joy. It was the cry of a woman whose dreams fulfil themselves after long suffering. It was a solid golden sound; and it was infectious, for when Finwë looked up into the face of the singer, it was a like pleasure that he felt running through his body.

It was Indis. Indis, the golden child grown to a beautiful woman. Indis, robed in white, a slender tree rooted in Taniquetil, her eyes burning with emotion. Strange that he had never noticed before her beautiful eyes, so richly and evenly coloured!

And when he looked into those clear windows across twenty feet of snow, Finwë saw what the passion was that inflamed her song. What else could it have been but love?

Love for him.

Somehow, he arrived at her side, as if the space between had melted away. They looked at each other shyly; she blushed as she awoke from her trance and stammered some conventional words of greeting.

"My lord, this is an unexpected pleasure! Let me bring you to my uncle. It has been too long since you-"

"Indis," Finwë said. "What are you talking about?"

"What do you mean? What should I be talking about?"

"Do you think me blind? I have been so, but I see now what I should have seen before."

She looked at him dumbly.

"You love me!" He seized her arms, feeling the warm flesh beneath his hands. "Deny it, I defy you!"

"Lord, your great grief has disordered your senses!"

Stepping back, Indis freed herself from his touch. Two large tears had welled in her eyes.

"Why do you weep?"

"Because I never wished you to know. I would not bring sorrow to you. More sorrow."

"What sorrow? You bring more joy than I can tell."

"But you are married."

"Indis, listen to me! Often - if only you knew how often! -, through Mandos, I have begged Míriel to return to me. She has always refused me."

"And what of that? You are still married."

"Hear me out! Two Years ago, Míriel answered my plea in these words.  _'I desire peace. Leave me in peace here! I will not return. That is my will.'_  And so I no longer wait in the gardens of Lórien for life to return to her body. I am free, if you will be my wife."

When he held out his arms to her, she clung to him immediately, as if she could no longer keep up any show of resistance. It was wonderfully sweet to feel a woman's shape and softness against his own body again. Her warm lips pressed against his; they were almost of a height.

"Behold!" he said, when at last they had come apart again. "There is indeed healing of grief in Aman!"


	16. Guests

1186

"Ready or no-ot, here I co-ome!"

Fëanáro could hear Ingwion calling, but it brought him no particular agitation. This was because he was not, as the older boy supposed, hiding in the garden. He had stolen back into the palace and was now watching Ingwion out of the window of his mother's old workroom. Nor did he find this situation particularly amusing, as he might once have done. It was all too emblematic of his current position as a stranger in his own home.

It may well be asked what Ingwion was doing in the palace of Finwë. Fëanáro himself was far from sure. Even his new stepmother, who had invited her Aunt Malwë to be with her during her first pregnancy, had apparently not taken into consideration the fact that the Vanyarin queen would want to bring her own children with her.

Ingwion most certainly did not mean to make Fëanáro's life into a misery; he was merely pompous and patronising, nothing more malicious; but he apparently believed himself honour-bound to amuse his host's son. The problem was that Ingwion and Fëanáro liked doing entirely different things. Ingwion enjoyed hearty outdoor games. Fëanáro did not. Of course he loved walking in the countryside, but that was quite different. It was out of a sense of growing desperation that he had suggested the game of hide-and-seek.

Now Ingwion was poking about under bushes, as if Fëanáro might have compressed himself to the size of a rabbit. It was ridiculous.  _He_ was ridiculous!

Fëanáro wondered what would happen when Ingwion failed to find him in the garden, and when he himself should emerge from his mother's room. He would not want to disappear for long enough to worry his father. Though Finwë no longer seemed to have time for anything but Indis and her swelling belly. For this time at least, the world of the palace revolved around her.

Now, if he had a nightmare, Fëanáro could seek no comfort in Finwë's chamber; Indis would be there. Sleeping in his father's bed, as he had sometimes done in the past, was out of the question. Her pregnant bulk hardly left room for the royal pair.

She had taken over the household; it was impossible to avoid her. No sooner did Fëanáro settled down with a book, or his secret notes for a new alphabet, than she would appear, smiling brightly.

_Shall we have a little chat?_

(On no account.)

_Would you like to feel the baby move?_

(Yes, very much, but this could not be admitted.)

But Indis would not dare to seek him out in this room which was sacred to the memory of Míriel Serindë. Even the servants recognised this, for, while the place was dusted regularly, her half-finished embroideries were always left in their places on the floor.

His mother! Had  _she_  been like Indis, he wondered? Had her gay laughter run through the corridors like a thread of gold, filling the 144 rooms of the palace to overflowing?

No, for he had seen her slightness in Lórien. She must surely have been an innocuous and unobtrusive being. - The strange thing was that Fëanáro had hardly ever thought of Míriel before the coming of Indis. She was no part of his world, only a strange thing of Lórien, an occasional sadness to his father. The two of them did not need her. They were complete in themselves for ever.


	17. Dramatis Personae

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

Ingwë - King of the Vanyar

Malwë - his wife

Ingwion, Ilmarien - their children

Ingimo - Ingwion's son

Meril - his daughter

Calatindil - Ilmarien's husband

Laurefindë (Glorfindel) - their son

Ingië - Ingwë's sister

Rilmo - her husband

Indis - their daughter, second wife of Finwë

Finwë - High King of the Noldor

Míriel - his first wife

Fëanáro (Fëanor) - their son

Nerdanel - his wife

Maitimo (Maedhros), Makalaurë (Maglor), Tyelkormo (Celegorm), Curufinwë (Curufin), Carnistir (Caranthir), Nityo (Amros), Telvo (Amrod) - their sons

Ambalindë - Makalaurë's wife

Losselótë - Curufinwë's wife

Findis, Nolofinwë (Fingolfin), Lalwen, Arafinwë (Finarfin) - children of Finwë and Indis

Anairë - Nolofinwë's wife

Findekáno (Fingon), Turukáno (Turgon), Artelda (Aredhel), Arakáno - their children

Elenwë - Turukáno's wife

Itaril (Idril) - their daughter

Eärwen - Arafinwë's wife

Findaráto (Finrod), Angaráto (Angrod), Aikanáro (Aegnor), Artanis (Galadriel) - their children

Amárië - Findaráto's betrothed

Eldalótë - Angaráto's wife

Artaher - their son

Ulwë - Míriel's mother

Teleporno (Celeborn) - nephew of Eärwen


	18. Weariness

1158

Míriel lay in the lying-in room, her child in her arms. Entombed in leaden weariness, she felt strangely detached, from the infant, from Finwë, who sat by the bed, and from herself. When her husband spoke, even forming the words to answer him was an effort. Her voice was no more than a fragile whisper.

"How do you feel, my darling?"

"Not well."

"But is there any pain?"

"No. None at all."

As a matter of fact, there had been no pain for some Days. She rather missed it. At least it had been a positive sensation.

"Well, that is a good sign, is it not?"

"I suppose so."

"You know it must be!"

_Oh, leave me alone_ , Míriel thought; but it seemed cruel to send him away. Besides, it was less effortful to lie still and silent and let him burble on. He was speaking of her recovery from the weakness after childbirth, which he expected to be imminent.

"You will be able to take up your work again quite soon, I expect. Only think of that!"

Míriel made no reply. The thought filled her with nausea. She was not inclined to appreciate pattern and colour, at least not at the moment. Perhaps she never would again. Just now, she desired only the uncomplicated greyness of a dreamless sleep.

"You will feel better tomorrow, my sweet. Try to think about the future."

"The future."

"Yes."

"What is - the future?"

There was something oddly literal about this question, as if Míriel were checking the definition of a word. In a way, she was. The concept of the future had no real meaning in her changed inner world, simpler and flatter as this was, stripped of many of the landmarks by which she had once guided herself. Something irretrievable had passed from her, leaving only a dragging weight.

Finwë took the child and held him up before Míriel's face.

" _He_ is! Look at him! Is he not beautiful?"

He was. She assessed him from a distance, like another woman's embroidery.

"The first birth is always the hardest, my darling. It will not be like this with his brothers and sisters."

Míriel laughed a small laugh; so tiny that Finwë could not make up his mind as to whether he had heard it or not. She laughed, not because she was amused or believed herself capable of ever again being so, but because his perspective was so hopelessly far removed from hers that the difference demanded some form of recognition.

"He will have no brothers or sisters."

"Don't say that, my dear. You will feel differently in time."

"No!" Míriel struggled to a sitting position; even this movement was an effort. "Never again shall I bear a child, for the strength that would have nourished the life of many has gone forth into Fëanáro."

"Surely there is healing in Aman?" Finwë murmured. "Here all weariness can find rest."

Míriel laughed softly in her throat.


	19. Of Surprises

1184

"A surprise, of course!"

"But what sort of a surprise?"

"Don't you know what a surprise  _is_ ,  _Atto_?"

"Well, if your surprise is a disappointment to you, you will have only yourself to blame!"

Fëanáro only laughed at this, leaning his head against Finwë's shoulder. He was sitting with his father in his study, perched on the arm of his chair. Finwë was attempting to ascertain what to give him for his impending begetting-Day.

"I don't know why I should give you a present at all,  _yonya_ , when you refuse to do what I tell you! Did I not forbid you to leave Tirion on your own again? And have you obeyed me?"

At almost twenty-six, Fëanáro was an extremely beautiful child who had inherited his mother's eyes and his father's way with words, the skilful fingers of Míriel and the black hair of Finwë as well as his wandering tendencies. He also possessed Míriel's wilfulness.

"I must have forgotten,  _Atto_. Don't be angry with me!"

This was surely one of the most superfluous injunctions in the history of language, since Finwë was entirely incapable of being angry with Fëanáro.

"I don't like you doing it," he said, adding, aware that this sounded pathetic: "You don't know how I worry about you!"

Fëanáro looked at his father with Míriel's eyes. The last shreds of his resolve, like snow in the sun, melted.

"Well, if you must go a-wandering, do try to be careful!"

"I will, I promise."

"Where do you go, anyway?"

"Well, sometimes I go down to the Shadowmere."

Visions of Fëanáro drowned danced before Finwë's eyes.

"Sometimes I go walking in the mountains,-"

"All right, that's quite enough. Don't tell me any more!"

Fëanáro reached out and picked up a letter from his father's desk.

"Who is this from?"

"Your grandmother," Finwë said. "She - er - will not be able to come to the party."

Fëanáro raised one dark eyebrow.

"She doesn't want to, you mean! Why are you always so  _delicate_ ,  _Atto_?"

After Míriel's death, Ulwë had left Tirion to live with her sister in Alqualondë. It was clear that she did not wish to be troubled by any contact with the child whose birth had taken her daughter's life. Nonetheless, out of some sense of duty, Finwë continued to invite her to Tirion. Sometimes she came. More often she did not. Ordinary Telerin women are distressingly capable of this kind of vindictiveness.

Finwë had never blamed Fëanáro for the death of Míriel. (He had sometimes blamed himself.) Fëanáro aroused the same frenzies of protective love in him as his mother had done. He was all that was left to him of her: something to be treasured and adored.


	20. Ilmarien and Calatindil (IV)

The house of Arafinwë Ingoldo was not in outward appearance unlike those of his brothers; even the gardens were all much of a size. The difference lay in the atmosphere. Walking off the busy street into the atrium there, Anairë had always thought, was like stepping out of Tirion altogether and into some quiet place hallowed to the Valar. Even the quality of light was different.

Nolofinwë's house, despite Anairë's best efforts, had no specific atmosphere. There was always too much bustle and worry going on for the tree of stillness to take root.

Arafinwë and his Eärwen never bustled! Of course it must be a help that they were childless. But could any child of this pair be noisy or disruptive? Both of them were so  _sweet_ , so pure and beautiful and happy!

Eärwen Olwë's daughter was Arafinwë's beloved wife of thirteen Years. She was also Anairë's dearest friend, a delicate, fine-boned Teler, possessed of the beauty of a newly-minted silver piece. Everything about Eärwen was silver. Her hair curled about her exquisite little face like spun strands of shining mercury; her eyes were great orbs of pure argent.

Anairë brooded over her brother-in-law's wife as a hen broods over her chicks. She found few things more annoying than being forced to share Eärwen's company and the glorious peace of Eärwen's house with a loquacious relative, whom she had never much liked anyway. Ilmarien, on the other hand, came prepared to 'enjoy herself tremendously'. She had changed into an astonishing gown of translucent gauze (worn over a shift, naturally). The astonishing part was the golden stars that seemed to float amidst the filmy material.

As soon as she was through the door, this vision cleared her throat, turned to Eärwen and began to talk:

"Do you know, I had forgotten how lovely your house is? One rarely sees such a beautiful taste - yours, I suppose - displayed in the furnishing of a home. It seems somehow all of a piece. How elegantly those chairs are upholstered! What exquisite needlework! I really envy you for living here, though Taniquetil has its advantages, of course. Perhaps this is a Telerin style?"

Eärwen was taken aback; she was always a little shy with those whom she did not know very well and now could barely whisper that Arafinwë was responsible for the decoration.

"Oh,  _how wonderful_! I must envy you your husband too! And I suppose he painted these murals with his own hands! He did? Goodness! But where is Cousin Aro?"

More by her awkward silences than by her words, Eärwen imparted the information that he had discovered a prior appointment.

Findis remarked, to nobody in particular, that her foolish little brother had at least enough sense to avoid tiresome family functions, then.

Eärwen blushed a delicate shade of rose-petal pink.

It was a great relief to everyone when the other guests, Nolofinwë, Anairë and Lalwen, arrived. There was no sign of Findekáno; Anairë informed Eärwen, in a low voice designed to exclude the rest of the company, that he was 'off somewhere' with Maitimo. She was pretending not to see the enthusiastic greetings of Nolofinwë and Ilmarien.

Eärwen, making a colossal effort to overcome her shyness, asked Ilmarien if she would like a tour of the garden before dinner.

"Oh,  _yes_!  _Yes_! And the house too? Only the garden? Oh well, I suppose we haven't time for the house. But don't you have an extraordinary garden? Would you believe, we don't have a garden in our house? On the other hand, I suppose the countryside is quite near..."

Anairë wanted to put her hands over her ears. Hearing Ilmarien's hearty voice ring out through these sacred cloisters made her feel a little ill, and watching Ilmarien's hearty appetite at would surely make her iller. How the woman maintained her slender figure was a mystery.

Arafinwë's garden - mostly maintained 'by his own hands' - was the secret silent heart of the house. Even Ilmarien was silent for a moment in contemplation of it. Even Anairë was still in body and mind. This, as Eärwen was quick to explain, being given courage to speak by the beauty around her, was only the beginning; the garden was in no way grown into its full glory. The little saplings dotted here and there were in fact  _malinorni_ \- a wedding present from Indis.

" _Malinorni_! How delightful! You know, I've always wanted to see one close up. When do they flower? Is it true that they're very difficult to grow?"

Ilmarien had recovered the power of speech.


	21. Ilmarien and Calatindil (V)

By the time of Findis' ninety-eighth begetting-Day, some thirty Days later, the family had become more or less used to Ilmarien's presence. In truth, she had hardly any effect on the arrangement of the household, which was so vast that the addition or subtraction of one person made no real difference. The staff were put to little inconvenience, as she had brought with her two maids who shared the rooms that she had been given, a beautiful and luxurious suite on the west of the palace, directly over the kitchens, overlooking the Square of the Folkwell. Ilmarien declared herself so comfortable there that she intended to stay all summer.

In Lalwen's words, Findis 'got out of bed on the wrong side' on her begetting-Day. She was undoubtedly suffering beneath the strain of not appearing to resent the long Hours that Calatindil now spent with Ilmarien every Day. For the sake of that other fiction, that his adoration was an intolerable burden to her, the pretence had to be maintained, but she was cloaking her irritation with her mother's cousin beneath a general unpleasantness.

In anticipation of the celebratory feast that was to be held in the atrium, Fëanáro, Nolofinwë, Lalwen and Arafinwë were invited to the palace for breakfast. Finwë would have invited Calatindil as well, except that Findis had forbidden him. After the meal, everyone produced gifts for the heroine of the Day. Findis accepted those of her siblings, especially the exquisite broach that Fëanáro had wrought for her, tolerably graciously, but her patience was visibly wearing thin by the time that Ilmarien presented her with a crystal necklace, which she put on to keep it out of the way.

"Really, Father, don't we have enough of that in this place?" she sighed over Finwë's offering of some embroidery silks.

.~.~.~.~.

About half an Hour later, Ilmarien ran into Findis in the colonnade that encircled the interior garden. She greeted her with a guileless smile and a breathless comment on the fine weather, which, as she claimed, must show that even the Valar were celebrating the great Day.

Findis nodded curtly. She plainly wished to be left alone, but Ilmarien, with the persistence of a small terrier, followed her along the colonnade for some twenty feet, covering her cousin's silence with her own chatter:

"I  _do_  admire your gown," she enthused. "Why don't you let me have the name of your dressmaker? While I am in Tirion, I don't see why I shouldn't have some good gowns made up in a Noldorin style. 'When in Alqualondë, do as the Teleri do', and all that. Would you believe it, I've never been to Alqualondë?"

"It seems to me," Findis said coldly, "that you have more than enough clothes already."

"Oh, I know I have plenty, but when it comes to clothes, 'enough' is simply not a word in my vocabulary! Besides, I'm dying to use some of the beautiful stuff I found in your Great Market. On the other hand, I should probably take some home for Mother and my sister-in-law. Have you met my sister-in-law, cousin?"

Findis did not reply, for, at this very moment, one of the many doors to the interior of the palace was opened and Calatindil came out, his handsome face half-eclipsed by a crimson weight of damascene roses. Ilmarien was rather disappointed when he did not appear to notice her presence. Instead, going up to Findis and giving her a theatrical little bow, he pressed this enormous bouquet into her hands. She received it with a dismissive twitch of one dark eyebrow.

"Roses today, is it?"

"Guess how many."

"144."

"Seventy-two, actually. Would 144 win your heart, who is the queen of mine? I could get 144."

Findis snorted.

"Your cruelty breaks my heart."

"I think not."

"Will you heal it? You need only marry me."

"Enough."

"At least will you accept a gift from me?"

"No," Findis cried, suddenly flying into a temper, "I will not! I don't want your gifts! And as for you" - turning on Ilmarien -, " _you_ can have your wretched necklace back! Here it is! Catch!"

Tearing off the offending item, Findis hurled it at her cousin. It hit Ilmarien's cheek and fell to the pavement.

Findis turned and strode off into the garden. Calatindil hurried after her, but eventually lost her in the twists and turns of the shrubbery, which she knew much better than he did.

Ilmarien retired to her rooms and stayed there for the rest of the Day, having decided that it would be best for her not to attend the feast. This was not such a hardship as it might otherwise have been; she had a shrewd idea that Calatindil would not be there either.


	22. Ilmarien and Calatindil (VI)

The next Day, before breakfast, Calatindil went out for a walk, which was the best cure he knew for depression. It was one of those rare times at which his usually stubbornly optimistic spirit had betrayed him. Findis' outburst was not the only cause of this disaster, although it had of course been a blow to his firm, self-protective belief that she would eventually surrender to his advances and fall into his arms.

The light of Telperion was just dying when he made his way into the Square of the Folkwell, that little patch of forest in the heart of the city, where a dense grove of oaks and poplars hid from view the central well. It was more or less extinguished by the time he came into sight of the seat there, finding it occupied by Ilmarien. He would have retraced his steps, but she had already seen him and was waving.

Now Ilmarien had her own part in Calatindil's dejection. It was not that he did not like her; on the contrary, he liked her too much. There was something dangerous and frightening about her uniform agreeableness and charm. Although the thought of her return to Taniquetil was more painful than it should have been, he was beginning to hope that it would come soon.

Nonetheless, it was undeniably pleasurable to see her, as well as embarrassing, after their last encounter. For this Calatindil immediately apologised in flowery language, asking if he might beg leave to express his heartfelt regret for any disturbance that might have been caused her by 'yesterday's unfortunate occurrences'.

"No, no," Ilmarien gushed, "there's no need for all that. The incident was nothing. I've already forgotten about it. It really must have caused  _you_  far more suffering than me, loving Cousin Findis as you do!"

Calatindil sat down on the other side of the well.

Ilmarien turned to look at him.

"I don't mean to speak of things that are none of my business," she said softly, "and I hope you aren't offended, but I can't help seeing your love for her."

"I've never tried to keep it a secret."

"No, of course not. Love is nothing to be ashamed of. It's something to shout from the rooftops, I think. I can't imagine any circumstances under which it could be wrong to love."

"Even when the love is not returned?"

"Even if the object were married to somebody else!  _Pure_  love could never be ignoble."

"It would not be very fruitful, perhaps."

"It might find fruit in honourable actions. - But you distract me; my point was this: we should be proud even to be creatures with the ability to love."

"I agree with you. I've always shouted my love for Findis from the rooftops, even at the very beginning, when we were both no more than children."

Ilmarien, who had bent her head to gaze meditatively into the depths of the well, looked up at him. She was as lovely as ever before, clad in a very pale yellow dress that made him think of wild primroses. Apart from two locks that were braided and pinned up to make a perfect crown, her silver-blonde hair fell free down her back, disturbed by not even the slightest breath of wind. Her skin glowed in the light of Laurelin.

Perhaps it was only her beauty, or perhaps there was some magic in the air, but Calatindil felt strangely and powerfully inclined to enlarge on what he had said. It seemed like a good Day for bearing souls.

So he told her the whole story of his love for Findis. He told her how, wanting only to be near her, he had become her father's secretary. He confessed that she had never given him even the slightest encouragement. On the contrary, she had shrugged off every one of the attentions with which he had showered her over the decades. Nonetheless, he retained the intangible, unprovable conviction, founded only on intuition, that Findis at least occasionally found pleasure in his company. On this basis was built the great hope of his life.

Conversation between them now tended to fall into an easy rhythm between his gallantry and her more or less scornful rejection of it. Time had smoothed the edges of this repeated exchange: the flowers and compliments were a game of exaggeration, the quixotic chivalry largely put on, the love still real and strong.

"But you don't want to hear all this," he said to Ilmarien when he had finished.

"I certainly do," she returned, "and I thank you for your confidence. I shall honour it most solemnly. Whatever Cousin Lalwen may tell you, I really do know how to shut up!"

Calatindil smiled.


	23. Ilmarien and Calatindil (VII)

In the event, it did not take Ilmarien the whole summer to seduce Calatindil. She secured a proposal of marriage only fifty Days later. This was the time that was required, not for him to fall in love with her, for that had happened some time earlier, perhaps even before their meeting in the Square of the Folkwell, but for this new infatuation to reach such a critical pitch that he became consciously aware of it. It was a wild and idealising love, of course. Calatindil was one to love with a passion or not at all.

They were riding together in the woods of Eldamar when it happened. Calatindil had been floating on a cushion of love all Day. Suddenly he found himself begging Ilmarien to accept his hand, which she did, with predictable rapture, amply matched by his own. There was something faintly dreamlike about the whole affair.

Afterwards they returned to Tirion, to break the news to the royal family. Finwë was frankly amazed, as were Nolofinwë and Lalwen, who happened to be dining with their parents. None of them had suspected anything. Indis had suspected much, but did not say so.

Calatindil had been rather concerned about Findis' reaction. Such attachments can never truly die, though they may sleep; and though he did not yet realise it, a small corner of his heart would forever belong to her. But she was so uncharacteristically kind, and expressed herself so pleased for him, that his trepidation was proved entirely groundless.

Ilmarien now busied herself with practical concerns. She immediately wrote to her father, explaining matters and requesting him, since it would be improper for a princess of the Vanyar to marry a secretary, to revive the office of Warden of the Mindon Eldaliéva for Calatindil forthwith. Ingwë wrote back that, while he would certainly be delighted to welcome Calatindil as a son-in-law, he would prefer to meet him before giving his final consent to the match. Moreover, he was sure that the office in question was one that only Vanyar could hold, having himself written a law to this effect.

Instead of sending a written reply, Ilmarien decided to take Calatindil to meet her family in Valinor, which she did, curtailing her long stay in Tirion. Ingwë and Malwë loved him, especially after he revealed his Vanyarin ancestry, which proved to be enough to render him eligible for the Wardenship.

Ilmarien now explained her plan for the immediate future, which was that she and her husband-to-be should remain together on Taniquetil until the Feast of First Fruits, when his family would be coming to Valinor for the feast that was traditionally held by Manwë at this time. It would thus be the ideal time for the betrothal ceremony. Afterwards, Calatindil would return to Tirion and there take up his new post in the Mindon.

This was approved by all parties, so Calatindil spent the next hundred or so Days in exploring the city of the Vanyar, with Ilmarien as his guide. The reversal of things was complete. It seemed to his delirious mind as if a new order of creation had begun.

At last the Feast of First Fruits came, and with it the announcement of the betrothal, for which Ingwë gave a splendid feast. It would have been hard to say who looked more radiantly happy on the Day: Ilmarien, Calatindil, or Findis. The only long face belonged to Finwë. Calatindil had resigned from his service, with some regret, before leaving Eldamar.

"We want to make the betrothal as short as possible," Ilmarien told Indis after the ceremony, casually resting her pale hand on the back of a nearby chair, so as to attract attention to the silver ring on the index finger. "Long engagements are for people who live near each other! In fact, I think the best thing might be to have the wedding at the same time next Year. What's your opinion?"

"Yes, that's a good idea," Indis said vaguely. "I wish you both all good luck."

Extricating herself from the conversation, she made her way over to the window where Findis stood alone, setting herself apart from the festivities. This was not surprising. It was indeed her usual custom at all feasts. Nonetheless, Indis put her arm around her daughter's shoulders, saying in a low voice:

"Do you mind that they will live in Tirion?"

"Why should I mind that, Mother?"

Findis smiled. It was a beautiful, living smile, full of apparently completely genuine amusement and affection. Only one small thing about it was unsettling to Indis. This was that she did not have any idea what lay behind it.

Indis was no longer the child who had failed to see the love of Finwë and Míriel growing beneath her very eyes. Ever since her sojourn on Taniquetil, her powers of understanding the minds and hearts of others had been growing. She had discovered how most people constantly revealed their motives in their facial expressions and the tones of their voices, and how easy it was to read them.

And yet she had never successfully used these tactics on her elder daughter. The other three, yes, for in many ways, they bore their intentions on their sleeves. Nolofinwë was not subtle enough, Lalwen and Arafinwë too simple and pure to conceal them. But Findis was too well-guarded, and too close to her. Findis was her firstborn.

"It would be quite natural for you to feel some resentment," she ventured now. "After all, you will have to watch them enjoying their married bliss across the square from your front door! But the most important thing is that you don't allow yourself to brood on it. You don't want to fall in love with him now!"

"Mother, really, what nonsense!"

"I am serious,  _hina_. Such things can happen."

" _Amil_ , listen to me," Findis said, turning her dark beguiling eyes on her mother. "All your wise words are beside the point, because I am far from brooding on anything. You can't imagine what a relief it is to be free of him!"

And with that Indis had to be content.


	24. Pleasant Conversation

1397

"Darling, doesn't Nerwen look sweet today?" Eärwen asked, her silver eyes twinkling with a radiant smile of maternal satisfaction. "I must admit, I do love choosing little dresses for her. After all, it's quite an innocent desire, isn't it, very natural for a women, and you can't do it with little boys, can you? Just like playing with dolls again!"

Anairë smiled rigidly. She was bored.

It was the wedding anniversary of Finwë and Indis, a time at which the king liked to have his family around him. Since Fëanáro invariably found an excuse to be absent from the celebrations, these were usually enjoyed by the family of Nolofinwë as well. Anairë especially relished the break from routine.

On this occasion, while the happy pair were congratulated by their children, she had found a nice, quiet spot in the corner of the room for herself and Eärwen to sit and engage in pleasant conversation. Anairë's idea of pleasant conversation involved embroidery, Lalwen's impossible behaviour, why poor Nerdanel had allowed Fëanáro to give her so many children, the joys of marriage to Nolofinwë and a little light current affairs. Instead, Eärwen, time and again, insisted on dragging the conversation around to the subject of her thirty-five-Year-old daughter.

Eärwen and Arafinwë had four children now, Angaráto, Aikanáro and Artanis as well as Findaráto. Angaráto was himself married to a young woman by the charming name of Eldalótë and had a son. (Not the first great-grandchild of Finwë and Indis: Turukáno's daughter Itaril was a little older.)

Nerwendë Artanis was just now the baby of the House of Finwë and almost universally adored. Findaráto adored her; Arafinwë and Eärwen adored her; all her cousins adored her; Indis adored her; Lalwen adored her (of course).

It seemed that the only person who did not worship the darling's very fingers and toes, apart from Anairë herself, was Fëanáro, who had been known to describe her as a precocious brat. Anairë could only agree. She considered the child spoilt and alarmingly forward, with her unnerving habit of silently staring down her elders and putting her betters right on various points of lore which a girl of her age really had no right to know about. Her uncle's wife had been on the receiving end of such insolence more than once.

"It is really charming to see how Artaher loves Nerwen," Eärwen said, sweetly.

Artaher was her young grandson, an unnervingly serious and scholarly child. Not that there was anything wrong with seriousness in children, as such. Anairë had often wished her own daughter a little more like Artaher.

Artelda was in her own unique way a deeply indolent creature. Anairë was often dismayed to find her curled up, in a most unladylike attitude, in some unfortunate chair, staring into space and doing absolutely nothing. The chair was unfortunate because any inanimate object to which Artelda took a fancy was doomed. Carpets were worn, books were torn and crumpled, crockery was smashed. Turukáno claimed that this was because his baby sister had such a lot of vitality in her.

Certainly, not that you would guess it to see Artelda relaxing, she had a boundless store of energy for hunting, which she loved for the wild exhilaration of the chase. Hunting was her deepest passion and that of her cousin Tyelkormo, who had first introduced her to such pleasures. Anairë felt that he had a great deal to answer for.

"... and such a little gardener she is! Why, Anairë, you would not believe the flowers Artanis grows in that little patch of garden she has. Aro and I think she might like to study in the house of Yavanna for a time, when she is older, that is..."

Anairë wished that Artanis could go to the house of Yavanna immediately and stay there.


	25. Author's Notes

OCs and CCs

Anairë, Arakáno, Artaher, Eldalótë, Findis, Ingwion, Lalwen and Meril are not OCs, but feature in 'The History of Middle-earth'. Arakáno is destined to die in a battle with orcs soon after the crossing of the Helcaraxë. Tolkien never described what ultimately became of Lalwen.

Curufin's wife and Indis' mother, who was also Ingwë's sister, are mentioned in 'The Peoples of Middle-earth', but the names  _Losselótë_ and _Ingië_ are my invention. Rilmo and Ingimo are OCs, created to fit gaps in the family tree.

It is mentioned in 'The Peoples of Middle-earth' that Maglor was married, but Ambalindë is an OC, as are Calatindil and Ilmarien. With reference to these two, it is stated in the same volume of 'The History of Middle-earth' that Glorfindel was related to Turgon, while his golden hair indicates that he had some Vanyarin blood.

Ulwë is also an OC. However, according to 'Morgoth's Ring', Míriel really did have silver hair. According to 'The People of Middle-earth',  _Serindë_ was her mother-name. (So she did have parents and was not a member of the first generation.)

Names

All elves have two names, a father-name, given by the father, and a mother-name, given by the mother. The former was announced by the father at a ceremony called the  _essecarmë_ , held soon after birth.

In 'The Silmarillion', the exiled Noldor (and Finarfin) are referred to by Sindarin names. Most of these are adaptations, made by the exiles themselves, of their original names in the languages of Aman, which I use in this story. The Quenyarizations of the names  _Aredhel_ and  _Glorfindel_  are my own, but all the other Quenya names employed here are found in the essay 'The Shibboleth of Fëanor' (in 'The Peoples of Middle-earth').

As well as the name by which each character preferred to be known, this essay also gives some others, such as the mother-name of Fingolfin ( _Arakáno_ \- the same as the name of his youngest son), the father-name ( _Nelyafinwë_ ) of Maedhros, who preferred his mother-name ( _Maitimo_ ), and others that I use in this story.

The names by which I usually refer to Fingolfin, Finarfin, Maedhros, Galadriel and the twin sons of Fëanor are not direct equivalents of the ones used in 'The Silmarillion'. As is described in the last chapter, Fingolfin modified his father-name ( _Nolofinwë_ ) to  _Finwë Nolofinwë_ , 'in pursuance of his claim to be the chieftain of all the Noldor', in Tolkien's words (from 'The Peoples of Middle-earth').

This name was Sindarized as Fingolfin. After the Dagor Bragollach, Finrod, who apparently believed that his father was Fingolfin's rightful successor, altered the Sindarin form of his name from  _Arfin_ to  _Finarfin_  in reflection of this belief.

Maedhros' Sindarin name was formed by combining elements from his mother-name ( _Maitimo_ ) and from  _Russandol_ ('coppertop'), a nickname of his. Similarly, the name  _Galadriel_  is the Sindarin form of Telerin  _Alatáriel_ ('maiden crowned with a radiant garland'), a nickname (referring to her hair) given to her by Celeborn.

'The Shibboleth of Fëanor' gives an extremely complicated account of the naming of the twin sons of Fëanor, which contradicts earlier texts (used by Christopher Tolkien in editing 'The Silmarillion' for publication) in making their Sindarin names  _Amros_ and  _Amrod_  instead of  _Amrod_ and  _Amras_ , Amros being the elder.

Apparently, the twins were so similar in appearance that Nerdanel actually gave them both the same mother-name ( _Ambarussa_ , 'Top-russet', referring to their reddish hair). Since Fëanor objected to this curious arrangement, she said that one should be called  _Umbarto_ ('The fated'), "but which, time will decide".

Fëanor changed this ominous name to  _Ambarto_  ('High noble one', or similar), which was Sindarized as  _Amrod_ , but it was only revealed to which twin it referred until the younger was accidentally killed in the burning of the ships at Losgar. (Here Tolkien was again contradicting his own previous statement that both twins died in the Third Kinslaying.)

Tolkien added that the name  _Ambarto_ was used by no-one, but that the twins called each other  _Ambarussa_. In this story, I assume that they were known to other people by their father-names, which were  _Nityafinwë_ and  _Telufinwë_ (shortened to  _Nityo_ and  _Telvo_ ).

The name  _Aldarilion_ is my Quenyarization of Sindarin  _Galathilion_.

Lalwen's name means 'Laughing Maiden'.

Other Quenya words, names and phrases

_amil_ =mother

_amma_ =mum or mummy, etc.

_Atar Aranya_ =Father, my King

_atto_ =dad or daddy, etc.

_coimas_ = _lembas_

_Endórë_ =Middle-earth

_Eruhíni_ =children of Eru

_fëa_ =spirit

_hina_ =child

_lómelindë_ =nightingale

_malinorni_ = _mellyrn_

_Moringotho_ =Morgoth

_nér_ =male person

_nieninqe_ = _niphredil_

_nissi_ =women

_Noldóran_ =King of the Noldor

_onóro_ =brother

_selde_ =daughter

_serindë_ =broideress

_Tauros_ =title of Oromë

_yonya_ =my son

Galadriel

In "The Silmarillion', Celeborn is a Sindarin kinsman of Thingol whom Galadriel meets in Doriath. However, in this story, I follow a different, later version of their history (given in 'Unfinished Tales'), which makes him a Telerin grandson of Olwë. Galadriel encounters him when she goes to live in Alqualondë. Discovering that they share a desire to see Middle-earth, they build a ship together and (after the First Kinslaying) cross the Great Sea in it. It seems that Tolkien wanted to disassociate Galadriel from the rebellion of Fëanor.

Time

1 Hour of the Trees=7 hours of the sun

1 Day of the Trees=12 Hours of the Trees=3.5 days of the sun

1 Year of the Trees=1000 Days of the Trees=9.582 years of the sun

1 Age of the Trees=100 Years of the Trees=958.2 years of the sun

Orodreth

Orodreth does not feature in this story, because it appears that Tolkien discarded him and gave his role to Angrod's son Artaher after writing most of the texts that Christopher Tolkien used to put together the published 'Silmarillion'.

Miscellaneous

Elves reach physical and mental maturity between the ages of forty-nine and ninety-nine. They celebrate begetting-days, not birthdays.

Various details of the geography and architecture of Tirion come from 'The Book of Lost Tales'. Some are actually borrowed from the descriptions of Gondolin given there, on the assumption that Turgon copied the layout of Tirion with some preciseness in planning his own city.

Some of the dialogue in this story, as well as the dates of many events, comes from 'The History of Middle-earth'.

Anairë's story of Imin, Tata and Enel is found in 'The War of the Jewels'. Tolkien commented that it was '[a]ctually written (in style and simple notions) to be a surviving Elvish "fairytale" or child's tale'.

It is stated in 'The Book of Lost Tales' that the great vat in which the radiance of Telperion was stored was kept in Lórien.

It seems that Tolkien always wrote Amárië's name as I have done in this story, with an acute accent and a diaeresis. I do not know why Christopher Tolkien chose, in editing 'The Silmarillion', to use only the diaeresis.


	26. The Shadows of Lorien

1449

Curufinwë Atarinkë, fourth of the seven sons of Fëanáro and Nerdanel - younger than Maitimo and Makalaurë and Tyelkormo, older than Carnistir and Nityo and Telvo -, knelt by the side of his dead grandmother in the grass of Lórien. He did not want to be there; he would have given anything to be with his brother Tyelkormo, who was undoubtedly even now hunting in the fields of Oromë.

Curufinwë's predicament was his father's fault. It had been Fëanáro, discovering that the two were planning an excursion into Valinor, who had asked his favourite son to bring him a vial of the liquid radiance of Telperion for use in his forge.

It had sounded so reasonable that Curufinwë had had no choice but to assent. Besides, he loved his father too much to disappoint him. And he had too much pride of every kind to delegate the duty to a servant, even though entering Lórien meant paying a ceremonial visit to his deceased ancestress. Not to do so would have been cowardice pure and simple, apart from the fact that Nerdanel would certainly ask him about it on his return.

Curufinwë knelt in the moist grass of Lórien, by the side of his dead grandmother. He did not touch her.

For 291 Years Míriel Serindë had rested on the quiet ground beneath a silver willow. Never in these Years had a flicker of life moved in the depths of her grey eyes. Never had a muscle twitched in the once so nimble hands. Míriel was dead. Why then did those cold lips smile into the twilight?

Once a Year, for as long Curufinwë could remember, his mother had dragged her family to Lórien, there to stand about the corpse of Míriel l for an awkward quarter-Hour. As far as he could see, the impulse behind this awkward pilgrimage was all Nerdanel's; Fëanáro appeared to find the sight as discomforting as did any of his sons, save perhaps Curufinwë himself, who did not like darkness.

When his father's spirit of discovery led him into the murky shadows of Araman or Avathar, he would find a reason to be somewhere else, usually in the brightly-lit forges of the house of Aulë, when he could. You knew where you were in the light of the Two Trees.

And yet the gardens of Lórien were undeniably beautiful, in their own way. There were nightingales, whose thin, cool notes fell like water upon the ear, and there were fields of poppies by dark pools that never saw the Tree-light for the coniferous shade about them. There was even a secretive sect among the Vanyar, the Lóriendili, who chose to live there.

As if in a test of his own will, Curufinwë bent forward until he was looking straight into the blank dark eyes of Míriel. It was important that he remain here for just a few more moments, a little more time, to prove his courage. These were the rules that he had set himself.

When the  _lómelindë_ began to sing, taking it as the sign for his release, he got up quickly and began to dust himself off. Now there remained only to collect the vial of light from the silver vat of Varda. After that, he could rejoin Tyelkormo in the forests of light.

As he turned to go, he cast a quick glance around the glade. Míriel looked, from even a little distance, to be sleeping beneath her silver tree. A few feet was enough to take all the terror from of her silent form. Curufinwë even felt free to pity her a little. How horrible it was that this child of Ilúvatar should be cut off forever from all the shimmering delights of incarnate life!

It was then that he saw the young woman.

It was no movement of hers that gave her away, for she was motionless and pale and delicate as the little stars of the white flower of Lórien that is called the _nieninqe_. No, she was more perfect than that bloom. It was the glimmering of her clear skin in some ray of stray light that differentiated her from the dark tree that loomed behind her, enormous in comparison.

There was a thick scent of poppies in the air.


	27. An Unimaginable Hand and Mind

'And how it draws one to itself! Have I not felt it? Even now my heart desires... to look across the wide seas of water and of time to Tirion the Fair, and perceive the unimaginable hand and mind of Fëanor at their work, while both the White Tree and the Golden were in flower!'

JRR Tolkien, 'The Two Towers'

.~.~.~.~.

1458

"Well, this  _is_  nice," Nolofinwë said fatuously, stretching out his legs beneath Fëanáro's dining-table. He withdrew them sharply when a foot connected with one of Tyelkormo's enormous hounds.

"It is, isn't it?" smiled Fëanáro.

"There is nothing more relaxing," his brother continued, slowly, "than a - nice - glass - I haven't got anything for you! - of wine after - dinner - There's a good boy..."

"Yes," Fëanáro murmured, "we are quite the convivial party, are we not?"

Nerdanel, who was sitting beside him, kicked him under the table. The only other person to notice this was Lalwen, who was kneeling on the floor, rubbing the stomach of another hound and murmuring endearments to it.

The rest of the convivial party, most of the sons of the house being currently on a visit to the house of Aulë and Yavanna, consisted of Anairë, Makalaurë and his wife Ambalindë. She was a tall, brown-haired, deep-voiced woman, musical and gentle and devoted to her husband, but not gifted with great intelligence or creativity. Her skills lay mainly in the field of tending small orphaned things and singing over the injured.

"Fëanáro has been doing wonderful things with crystals lately," Nerdanel said. "I hardly know how to describe what he has achieved. In fact... Káno, darling, I wonder if you could possibly go and fetch one of Father's new inventions?"

Makalaurë left the table, followed by his devoted spouse.

"Do you know," Nerdanel remarked to Anairë, "we hardly see anything of Curufinwë these Days? He is always visiting his grandmother in Lórien. If you ask me" - lowering her voice conspiratorially -, "it's love!"

"Love?"

"Yes, he's bound to have met some girl there-"

Here Makalaurë returned, carrying a large orb of dark crystal. Ambalindë flapped around him like an oversized moth, trying to help.

"Aha!" Nolofinwë erupted gratefully. "Here we have the latest fruit of genius, eh?"

"Yes indeed," Nerdanel said. "Put it down on the table, please, darling. That's right."

"What is it? A glass eye for a giant?"

"No. Please move your chair back. You should be sitting about three feet away."

"Going to explode, is it?"

Nerdanel sighed and looked at Fëanáro, who leaned towards Nolofinwë.

"You have to think of something," he said, adding beneath his breath, "if you  _can_..."

Nerdanel kicked him again. Lalwen did not notice this time, because she had returned to the table to get a better look at the mysterious object.

"Think of something? What do you mean, think of something?"

"Yes, it can be quite difficult if you're not brought up to it."

"Concentrate on an object," Nerdanel muttered. "Something you know well."

"Why?"

"Just try it."

Nolofinwë stared into the shining black surface of the globe, trying to think of something to concentrate on.

"My goodness," he said, "isn't it amazing how the mind just empties at times like this?"

Ambalindë smiled sympathetically at him.

Suddenly it came to him: the sight that he knew best and loved most. Frantically he envisaged it, trying to ignore the distracting glint of Fëanáro's eyes on the other side of the table. And then, for a moment, it was before him in the surface of the crystal, a clear and perfect image.

He found himself looking away, to see if Anairë had crept up behind him, but she remained in her seat, two and a half feet nearer to the table. When he returned his attention to the globe, the vision of her face had disappeared.

"What on earth-?"

"The stone picks up from your mind what you want to see and shows it to you," Fëanáro said, rather smugly. "I call them  _palantíri_."

"That's astonishing!" Nolofinwë cried, all too conscious, even as he spoke the words, of their hopeless banality. "However did you-?"

"That, I fear, must remain a craft secret."

Lalwen now insisted on testing the miraculous crystal. Nolofinwë, ejected from his chair, stood around awkwardly. It seemed bad manners to take hers.

"So you've made more of these things?" he said to Fëanáro at a wild venture.

"Indeed."

"And, er, are they just, ah, toys, or do you have any practical application in mind for them?"

"Is it possible that a dozen do not occur to you? If you must know," Fëanáro added, "I intend to use them to study the Middle-earth."

His tone of voice was curious, quite different to that of casual contempt which he usually reserved for his half-brother. The words cut through the air like a knife, having a peculiar effect on Nerdanel, who suddenly stiffened in her seat and fixed her eyes on the ceiling. Her strange heavy face became unusually grim. It was perfectly obvious to Lalwen and even to Anairë, a woman not known for her insight, that the conversation had entered the territory of some disagreement between husband and wife. Nolofinwë, however, was still wrapped in the state of morbid idiocy to which long doses of his half-brother's company were apt to reduce him.

Fëanáro was staring fixedly in his direction, causing his brain to dry up and cling to the back of his skull.

"The Middle-earth?" he said. "Why would you want to study that forsaken place?"

"A good question," Fëanáro replied. "It is, after all, only the cradle of our race."

"Before the grown one indulges in nostalgia for the cradle", Nerdanel cut in, "he would do well to ask whether he would have wished to remain there for all the Years that he has spent acquiring knowledge."

"Why must all wisdom flow from the Valar?"

"I suspect that you would be lost in the Middle-earth, husband. The knowledge that you love is not learned from babbling brooks. Indeed, all your craft comes of Aulë."

"Actually," Fëanáro said, "most of it comes from your father."

"And his from Aulë."

Anairë and Nolofinwë were by now paralysed with embarrassment and confusion, but Lalwen knelt forward, resting her elbows lightly on the brindled hound, turning her head from one speaker to another. This window into the domestic life of another's household was highly gratifying to her natural inquisitiveness. On one level, it was not difficult to see what they were talking about, but there was so clearly a second layer of meaning to all their words, a patina that they had acquired from being used over and over again. This dispute was one of the long-running sort.

Fëanáro and Nerdanel did not need to raise their voices to argue - Nerdanel in particular was almost murmuring - but Lalwen could feel the suppressed tension building. If it had not been for the presence of the guests, there would soon have been plates flying through the air.

"I think we had better go now," Nolofinwë said loudly. "Of course, we would love to stay all Day, but I have just remembered a most pressing appointment with my - er-"

"Secretary," Lalwen suggested.

"Why yes, with my secretary of course, how forgetful I am today!"

"I didn't know you had a secretary," Fëanáro remarked.

"Oh, didn't you? Well, of course I have only just got one," Nolofinwë extemporised, reminding himself to acquire a secretary immediately. "I found myself completely unable to deal with the burden of my correspondence."

"I'm not surprised."


	28. Storytelling

" _Amma_ , tell me a story!"

"Not now, Arakáno! For heaven's sake! Can't you see I'm busy?"

"But  _Amma_ , you're always busy. Won't you tell me a story?"

"Later, dear."

" _Amma... Please!"_

"Oh, all right then!"

Anairë put aside her elaborate but uninspired embroidery and gathered her youngest son into her lap. His name was Arakáno; he was six Years old; and he was going to be tall, probably taller than Turukáno, certainly taller than Findekáno. The promise of it hung about his shoulders in a haze.

Nolofinwë, who was much taken with his namesake, could also see that this youngest of the grandsons of Finwë would eventually be the most renowned, and that he would grow up to perform deeds of unsurpassed genius; but this he kept to himself. It would be best not to let Fëanáro hear of these grand hopes.

At the moment, Arakáno could still be accommodated, reasonably comfortably for all involved, on his mother's knee. So there they were, entwined. Anairë was sitting in her sewing-room with Lalwen. She did not like Lalwen being there, but there did not seem to be a polite way of removing her.

"What sort of story would you like, chick?"

Arakáno leaned his head against his mother's shoulder and closed his eyes in anticipation.

"A story about the Middle-earth," he said, without a moment's hesitation, adding: "Uncle Fëanáro tells lovely stories about the Middle-earth."

Lalwen snorted with laughter at the expression on her sister-in-law's face.

"The Middle-earth?" Anairë managed, painfully reminded of one of the most embarrassing social occasions that she had ever endured. "Really? Wouldn't you prefer a story about when I was a little girl?"

Once again, Lalwen choked on her own merriment. This was too delicious!

"No," Arakáno insisted, sounding most definite. "Middle-earth, please!"

From Lalwen: "To give credit where credit's due, the boy knows what he wants!"

Anairë sighed. She was now forced to provide some sort of story about the Middle-earth. If she refused, Lalwen would certainly oblige, which would be a blow to her in their never-ending battle for the affections of the children. An inspiration came to her.

"Darling, shall I tell you the tale of Imin, Tata and Enel?"

"Oh, yes please!"

"Very well." Anairë cleared her throat. "The first of the first Quendi to wake by the waters of Cuiviénen were Imin, Tata and Enel, from whose names our words for the first three numbers are derived. There is no Tree-light in the Middle-earth, is there,  _yonya_? What is there instead?"

"Stars!"

"Right! The three kings - they were kings, later - woke into the starlight, and they saw the stars before all else. Now when they had marvelled at the beauty of heaven, the first thing they did was to wake their destined spouses, who slept at their sides, as Ilúvatar had ordained.

"Their names were Iminyë, Tatië and Enelyë. The first love of these women was for their husbands, because they saw them first of all. So it is that reverence for the wonders of Arda has always taken second place in the hearts of women, after the love of their spouses."

Lalwen pursed her lips and moved restlessly in her seat.

"After a time, the kings and their wives left the place of their awakening and walked through the woods until they came to a glade, where twelve more Quendi, six _neri_ and six  _nissi_ , were just waking. These Imin took to himself, to be his people - for they were golden-haired and exceedingly beautiful -, and they became the Vanyar."

"Anairë," Lalwen said sweetly, "why are you feeding the child all that rubbish?"

"What rubbish, sister?"

"I see no reason why children should be deceived, merely because they are not old enough to understand the difference between truth and lies!"

"It is a tale, not a lie."

"Although I must say," Lalwen went on, ignoring her sister-in-law entirely, "that Arakáno here could probably point out a few discrepancies in your story already. Would any sane child believe that the race of the Noldor springs from two separate groups selected at random by a fictional character?"

"Írien -"

"Incidentally, I find your pretty theory of spouses waking side by side absolutely sickening. What about the right of the Eruhíni to choose for themselves? And more to the point, isn't our boy going to be fairly confused when he discovers that this providential arrangement did not apply to his own grandfather?"

"Írien, for goodness' sake, be sensible. It is only a pretty story for children!"

"The real story of the Waking of the Eldar is not pretty. It is beautiful and true."

"Arakáno will know that tale when he is older."

"But why not now?"

And so it went on.

Meanwhile Arakáno, who hated it when his grown-ups quarrelled, especially about him, had slid off Anairë's lap to poke around in her discarded workbasket, disassociating himself from the conflict. Neither woman took any notice.


	29. The Art of Horticulture

1468

It was one of those Days when Lalwen was overwhelmed by a burning desire to get out of Anairë's house. Under such circumstances, the untidiness and general anarchic atmosphere at her half-brother's had often served as balm to her soul. Lalwen liked Fëanáro and Nerdanel very much indeed, in a casual friendly way that had nothing to do with her frantic love for Nolofinwë.

So she went to see Nerdanel, who took her out into the garden for a cup of mint tea. The hostess seated herself in the large wooden swing on the terrace, the one that Curufinwë had built in the Days of his interest in carpentry. Lalwen crouched in the attitude of an eager honey-coloured spaniel on the gravel at her feet. She always enjoyed sitting on the ground. Fëanáro's house was one of the few places where she felt free to give vent to this childish pleasure.

She said as much to Nerdanel.

"Darling, do you ever feel as if your real kinship is with children? I do, all the time. As if one has only grown up by mistake. I identify myself with darling Arakáno much more than I do with Nolo, for example. Do you ever feel anything like that?"

"Perhaps. I don't know."

"It's very depressing to think that Arakáno might grow up to be as boring as Turukáno. When  _he_  was a child, it was quite an exciting period. We never knew what he was going to do next."

"Ah?" said Nerdanel, in a strangely distracted tone. "What sort of things did he do?"

"Oh, you know! Of course Turukáno is blessed with a charisma the size of the Great Sea. He used to have a band of little boys trailing after him, all trying to win his favour. And what mischief he would put them up to! I tell you, it was absolutely pitiful to see how poor little Laurefindë worshipped him. He simply never caught on to the fact that his idol would rather play with Findaráto any Day."

"Good." Nerdanel paused. "I mean, what a shame, of course."

"And then he suddenly changed into a perfect copy of his  _amma_. About the time he turned thirty. Very strange. After he met Elenwë, there was no hope, of course. Marriage turned him into a smug idiot. I am so glad not to be married!"

"Mmmm, really?"

"Speaking of marriage, how is the young lovebird of the moment?"

"Who?"

"Your son, who got married thirty Days ago!"

"Curufinwë is well enough."

"I do feel sorry for you, dear, having to share a house with him and Losselótë on their honeymoon. Loving couples are hideous. I should know; I live with one. Two, actually. It's always 'Darling' this and 'Sweetheart' this. There's no end to it, I can tell you!"

"I see."

"And where is Fëanáro on this clement and well-omened Day?"

"In his forge."

"Doing-?"

Nerdanel sighed.

"Trying to achieve a clear image of the Middle-earth in one of his precious seeing-stones."

"Oh! And why is he doing that?"

"It's hard to say."

"You don't seem very animated today, darling."

"I must be tired."

Nerdanel stared unseeing into the branches of the enormous pine. She wanted to run and snatch the  _palantír_  out of Fëanáro's hands; but that kind of approach was bound to failure with her husband's stubborn spirit. It would be more likely to encourage him in his experiments and alienate him from herself.

Fëanáro, in essence, was a simple creature. Nerdanel had always inwardly laughed at those unable to see this. His behaviour followed a definite pattern: he would pick up some obscure field of elven endeavour, explore it, become an expert in it, redefine it - and then like a bored child move on to other things.

This was what had happened with his crazes for linguistics and pottery and sculpture and architecture and, surprisingly enough, cabinet-making. Even his interest in jewel-craft, in which he had had so much success, had tailed off a little over the eighteen Years since he had created his masterpieces in that field, the three radiant gems that he named the Silmarils.

The nature of Fëanáro's latest obsession was a little different. Nerdanel was not so cheerfully tolerant of it. Indeed, she could hardly consider it as anything less than an insult to the Valar and their judgement in removing almost half of the Quendi to Aman. It was all very well to be curious about the Middle-earth, yes. But Nerdanel had heard enough of the dangers of that land to be wary of over-romanticising it. One would never guess, to hear some of Fëanáro's opinions, that his own grandfather had not survived the Great March.

"Oromë promised our fathers joy without limit," as he said, "where now we find ourselves fenced in by the sea!"

Lalwen got up and wandered over to a nearby sculpture. She could feel her sister-in-law willing her to go away.

.~.~.~.~.

Finwë and Indis were sitting in their own garden. This square of earth, completely enclosed by the royal palace, had lived through two different incarnations. Míriel's garden had been an indescribable confusion of all her favourite flowers, tulips, crocosmia, daffodils, hydrangea, geraniums and hundreds of roses in every possible colour, everything colourful, all blooming at once in the light of the Trees, but more than a little neglected, especially after her death.

Indis had felt it advisable to employ new gardeners and to pull up most of Míriel's feral plants. The creation of her own garden had served as a useful outlet for energies stirred up by the sight of Míriel's tapestries all over the palace. (It was tacitly understood that she was not to touch  _them_.) Indis' garden was white.

Artanis approved of this colour scheme. The other Day, as they walked together, she had explained to her grandmother how dreadful it was that so few people really bothered to make a logical plan before laying out their gardens. There was nothing (said Artanis) more distressing to the soul than the sight of a garden that some horticultural idiot had made up as he went along. Gardening was an art form like any other and ought to be treated with appropriate respect.

"So," Indis had said, "you are learning something in the house of Yavanna, after all!"

"Grandmother! I am serious."

Indis was conscious of a vague worry about Artanis. She was so strong, academically so clever, bubbled so with idealism and an unformed desire to change the world - quite unlike Indis' other granddaughter, who had not as much ambition as would bring a butterfly out of its chrysalis and cared very little for the doings of other people, so long as she was allowed to do exactly as she liked. Artelda was easily contented. It would take only a little frustration, Indis felt, to make Artanis very unhappy.

Finwë's thoughts were far other, being mostly concerned with his new granddaughter by marriage. It was fourteen Years since Curufinwë had introduced Losselótë of Lórien to his extended family, glowing with pride for his good fortune, and yet Finwë had not quite accustomed himself to the idea of their marriage.

Losselótë was beautiful,  _yes_ , but so serious and so small. He could not remember ever seeing a smile cross her lovely little face. And her height, just over five feet, was surely on the fine line between delicacy and abnormality. She seemed to bring a small piece of shadow with her wherever she went.

Finwë had long since given up visiting Míriel in Lórien. It was not as if she was aware of his presence. He had better things to do than be reminded of the darkness that he had left behind in the Middle-earth. It would not do to make Indis unhappy... And yet the sight of Losselótë never failed to send a chill through his body.


	30. Brother and Sister

1472

Life in the house of Nolofinwë being run around the fiction that he was a paterfamilias of Fëanáro's standing, he had his own private study overlooking the garden. Lalwen and Artelda were the only members of the family who would risk hurting his feelings by breaching the sacred door of heavy oak without a summons from him. Artelda occasionally did so in order to manifest her perfect freedom of thought and action. Lalwen had other motives.

Today, she was venting her feelings about a small disagreement that Nolofinwë had had with Fëanáro, incidentally at Arafinwë's house, on the preceding Day, when their younger brother had invited the entire family to a celebration of his daughter's homecoming from several Years of study in the house of Yavanna.

All had been going well, until Fëanáro had dragged the conversation around to his favourite subject of the wonders of Middle-earth. His ideas on the subject were not to Nolofinwë's liking, especially not when rammed down his throat during one of those unbearable social encounters with his half-brother which always left him feeling as if he had been flayed alive and then pricked all over with pins. Marketplace gossip, that was all they were, such as he should have thought that a son of Finwë would scorn to listen to, let alone repeat and elaborate.

"Yes, darling," Lalwen said, in what she no doubt imagined to be a tone of patient entreaty, but what was in fact an infuriating whine, "but that does not answer the question of why you must go out of your way to aggravate him, does it?"

The conversation had ended with Nolofinwë calling Fëanáro's theories rubbish and Fëanáro himself little better than an enemy to the Valar.

"I do not go out of my way to aggravate him," he returned now, " _he_  goes out of  _his_  way to aggravate  _me_."

"Nonsense! You know you upset Aro."

"Oh dear. Did I upset poor little baby Aro, then?"

"I think you should apologise to Fëanáro. And to Arafinwë. His house is not some kind of convenient battleground for you two idiots."

"Try thinking something else."

"Talking to you is like shouting at a brick wall!"

"You certainly do shout."

"Oh Aulë! Nolofinwë, are you even listening to me, or have you turned off some little door in your head that says you must be right and I must be wrong?"

"I do not know what you are talking about."

"I am talking about your smug face!"

"Really? I had no idea. I thought we were talking about Fëanáro."

"Damn you, you know what I bloody well mean!"

"There is no need to puncture the air in defence of harmony, sister mine. And those who desire peace would do well to stop short of violence in the quest."

Lalwen sucked in a deep breath of air and made a conscious effort to be calm.

_"If you did not make such a point of being righteously offended by his stuff,"_ she hissed, _"Fëanáro would shut up, wouldn't he, you utter fool?"_

"Fëanáro's 'stuff' is dangerous."

"As if you care what he  _says_."

"What do you mean?"

"You know damn well what I mean!"

"Give me credit for some maturity, Lalwen."

_"When I see it!"_

"Fëanáro's words can influence the susceptible."

"Unlike yours! Just like a jealous child, you are!"

"We are going in circles, sister mine. If you would be so kind as to leave my study..."

"No! Oh, Nolo, please, just  _listen_  to me!"

"I have heard everything that you have to say."

"But you have not listened to it!"

"I have."

"Then you won't do it any more?"

"Won't do what any more?"

"Won't allow Fëanáro to provoke you into quarrels."

"My dear Írien -"

"How dare you 'Írien' me!"

"My dear sister-"

"I'm sick of it, Nolo, sick to death of it, d'you hear me? Listen! Fëanáro will be going on one of his 'little trips' in a few Days. I don't ask you to do anything before he leaves! When he comes back, I want you - I beseech you! - to be civil to him. You can make a new start. Please?"

But Nolofinwë's dark head was turned away from his sister; he was pretending to write a letter.


	31. Bindweed

"Eärwen, sister, you really must do something about all this bindweed."

"Do something?"

"I believe one pulls it up and burns it. Not that I do such things myself, of course."

"Anairë! Bindweed is a beautiful flower!"

"And a noxious weed."

The  _malinorni_ of Arafinwë's garden were grown very tall, their golden tops whispering in the wind above the protection of the garden wall. No bindweed could have damaged them now; but there were other, smaller trees from which the offending, open-throated, ivory trumpets blared defiance. The sight was repulsive to Anairë's eye.

"Artanis says there is no such thing as a weed. All plants have an equal claim to life in their proper places."

"Trust me, Eärwen, the proper place for bindweed is not in your garden... It must be nice to have Artanis home again."

"Well," Eärwen replied, a little hesitantly. "It is lovely, of course, but - I believe she will need a little more time to settle in. She does brood rather around the house."

"Ah, she sounds like Findekáno! He is insufferable whenever Fëanáro takes Maitimo away."

"...And she does seem to take up rather a lot of space."

.~.~.~.~.

He kissed her. He could never get enough of kissing her. He loved to bury his face within the waterfall of her dark hair, the inheritance of a Noldorin grandmother, and to lose himself within the exquisite fragrance of it. Losselótë's hair smelled of honeysuckle and jasmine. He loved, too, simply to sit and watch her: the perfect grace of her movements, her way of tossing back her hair in almost an impatient gesture and then turning her deep grey eyes on him with a look of softening love.

The House of Fëanáro had made their camp on the dark sand of a beach, north of Alqualondë. Very little light filtered around the mountains in this place; and yet, so long as there was enough to show him the pearly gleam of his wife's skin, Curufinwë could not have cared less for the darkness.

As he lay at her side, he would sometimes wonder if something so utterly perfect as Losselótë could actually be true and be his. Was it not possible that he would wake into some Day and find she had been nothing but a dream of Lórien?

Then he would lift himself on one elbow and look at her face by the starlight. He had discovered that that tiny movement, or perhaps his very scrutiny, would often bring a glimmer of wakefulness into her darkly liquid eyes.

When, sleepily, she whispered words of love to him, the pure clarity of her voice was sweeter than any music in Aman. It struck silver against his ear, like the call of the  _lómelindë_ who sings in darkness.


	32. The Trouble with Words

'["]There's glory for you!"

'"I don't know what you mean by 'glory'," Alive said.

'Humpty Dumpty smiled contemptuously. "Of course you don't - till I tell you. I meant 'there's a nice knock-down argument for you!'"

'"But 'glory' doesn't mean 'a nice knock-down argument,'" Alice objected.

'"When  _I_ use a word," Humpty Dumpty said in rather a scornful tone, "it means just what I choose it to mean - neither more nor less."

'"The question is," said Alice, "whether you  _can_ make words mean different things."

'"The question is," said Humpty Dumpty, "which is to be master - that's all."

'Alice was too much puzzled to say anything, so after a minute Humpty Dumpty began again. "They've a temper, some of them - particularly verbs, they're the proudest - adjectives you can do anything with, but not verbs - however,  _I_ can manage the whole lot! Impenetrability! That's what  _I_  say!"

'"Would you tell me, please," said Alice, "what that means?"

'"Now you talk like a reasonable child," said Humpty Dumpty, looking very much pleased. "I meant by 'impenetrability' that we've had enough of that subject, and it would be just as well if you'd mention what you mean to do next, as I suppose you don't intend to stop here all the rest of your life."

'"That's a great deal to make one word mean," Alice said in a thoughtful tone.

'"When I make a word do a lot of work like that," said Humpty Dumpty, "I always pay it extra."

'"Oh!" said Alice. She was too much puzzled to make any other remark.

'"Ah, you should see 'em come round me of a Saturday night," Humpty Dumpty went on, wagging his head gravely from side to side: "for to get their wages, you know."

'(Alice didn't venture to ask him what he paid them with; and so you see I can't tell  _you_.)'

Lewis Carroll, 'Through the Looking-Glass'

.~.~.~.~.

1473

"Finwë," Indis said, "we must talk about Fëanáro."

Finwë pretended not to hear her. He was sitting at the breakfast table, going through a small pile of letters and invitations, what part of the King's voluminous correspondence Calatindil's successor felt obliged to pass on to him. There was nothing from Fëanáro or any of his sons.

"Finwë," she said, very softly. She had taken for herself a window seat looking out upon the city, her long legs hugging the wall, her feet just shy of the floor. Indis held this position with incredible elegance.

"I think this is a good time to take stock of the situation, don't you?"

So calm and collected! She might have been addressing a council on some impersonal matter of state.

"What situation?"

She sucked in a breath of exasperated air, just loud enough for him to hear it. Of course he was supposed to hear it.

"There is something wrong between Fëanáro and Nolofinwë. That situation."

No answer.

"We all suffer from this - thing - this enmity."

"Aye."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Your remark seemed to require an answer. Did you desire contradiction?"

"I might have expected action."

"Action?"

"Or remorse, indeed."

"Remorse?"

"Finwë, what is the matter with you? The least criticism of Fëanáro is enough to close down your reasoning faculties. You know your own part in this as well as I know mine."

"Part in what?"

"For Manwë's sake, Finwë, stop hunching yourself like a cornered beast! It is not too late to rectify your mistakes."

"Then stop combing your hair in that aggravating manner."

"Now about this rectification."

"How do you propose it be accomplished?"

"That is your business, Finwë. Only you have an influence over both of them."

This looked undeniable.

"Now I would begin with Fëanáro."

"Would you, indeed?"

"Fëanáro is the most loyal of sons. He would hear the truth from you."

"What is the truth?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me."

"The truth is that you were a full adult of sound mind when you answered the call of Oromë."

"I was young and certain and full of words."

"The truth is that the light of Aman shines upon us."

"But Cuiviénen was lovely beneath the stars."

"Finwë! You cannot surely mean to suggest that you support Fëanáro in this madness?"

"I support no-one. I can be sure of nothing."

"What is wrong with words, anyway?"

"You would not understand. You were born into the world that they have made."

"Well, perhaps you are right," Indis said. "Probably I have never understood what passes in that head of yours. But it seems to my feeble brain that you would do better to worry about Fëanáro."


	33. Lost Children

1476

It was a longstanding joke between the queen of the Noldor and the king of the Vanyar that she had attained grandparent- and great-grandparenthood before him. Yet time moves even on Taniquetil, and Ingwion's son Ingimo had become a father on the third Day of the Year 1476. Ingwë had planned for little Meril an  _essecarmë_ of unsurpassed splendour. He had not succeeded actually in securing Manwë to hold the golden infant during the ceremony, but Ilmarien had proved a more than acceptable substitute. The Vanyar loved their princesses.

Findekáno had been whole-heartedly glad of the opportunity to get out of Tirion. Since Fëanáro's return from his latest wanderings, Findekáno had been forced to exercise a great deal of ingenuity in not encountering Maitimo in the street. It was not that Maitimo would be impolite to him if such a meeting did transpire: on the contrary, he was always extremely civil. They would often bow to each other.

_Bow!_

Findekáno had never been especially close to his siblings. They were all three of them so much younger and so much absorbed in their own lives, which touched his only at the edges. Artelda's life, for example, was in the freedom of the chase.

(He observed that her relationship with Tyelkormo was exactly the carefree companionship it had always been; those two were another sort of creature altogether, amoral and beyond political or familial affiliations.)

Turukáno had passed directly out of childhood and into marriage and the family life. It was as yet too early to know what Arakáno was going to be. Arakáno was a baby.

All Findekáno's fraternal feelings were bound up with Maitimo. He could not remember a time when he had not adored Maitimo, been ready to do anything for him. It had never occurred to him that the breach between Fëanáro and Nolofinwë could ever have any effect on their friendship. And now Maitimo had turned this freezing shield of politeness upon him!

.~.~.~.~.

Indis walked through the white halls of Ingwë like a lost child come home. Indeed, of all the many places that she had inhabited in her strange and wandering youth, Taniquetil was the one that had suited her best. The Mindon Eldaliéva was bound up in her mind with the sweet pain of her first love for Finwë; but those had been the Years in which she had been least herself. It was on Taniquetil that she had grown into her own soul.

Of course, Indis had come to Tirion only at the extreme end of a long childhood, mainly passed in the Middle-earth. But none of those shadowy stopping-places of the Great March could fairly be described as a home. As for Cuiviénen, well - let it suffice to say that her first even halfway clear memories of that land were of preparations to leave it.

Indis was just old enough to remember her uncle coming home to the land by the great lake, a stranger to her who had been born during his absence. Presumably it had been at the same time that she had first encountered Finwë; she could remember nothing of that meeting, apart from a strange, tall shape silhouetted against firelight in a shadowy clearing and a clear voice raised in fervent oration. She had always imagined this to be a memory of the historic assembly at which the three ambassador-kings had recounted their experiences in the West. Or perhaps it was a dream. Indis' memories of the Middle-earth were uniformly dream-like.


	34. Flight

1487

Lalwen had found Arafinwë's door unlocked. It was just like him to leave it so; no door with which Nolofinwë or Anairë had anything to do was likely to have less than three locks. Lalwen frequently mislaid her keys and had to bang on the window for a servant to let her in. (Anairë never opened doors herself and lived in a state of perpetual surprise that Nerdanel could lower herself to do so.)

The house seemed to be entirely deserted; Lalwen was glad. She had not come to see her brother or his family. She had come to calm down. Lalwen was furious with Nolofinwë as she had rarely been before. Even here, in this quiet place, a sob of rage rose in her throat at the thought of what he had done to her. How  _dare_ he!

In the garden, she found Eärwen, who was doing some embroidery on the lawn. She did not greet her sister-in-law, merely raising her glorious eyes to see who it was bursting in from the house and then lowering them again to her work.

Lalwen threw herself down on the grass. The wind was making music in the  _malinorni._

What Nolofinwë had done was to steal from the palace cellar, where they had been quietly rusting away and doing no-one any harm, several elderly swords. He had then presented these to his assembled household, after delivering a vague and incomprehensible little speech about the importance of self-defence 'in these troubled times'. Lalwen had asked him repeatedly to what troubled times he was referring. His casual rebuffals had driven her almost to hysterics.

The rest of the family had been no help at all. Anairë and Turukáno had been firmly on Nolofinwë's side in this as in everything; Findekáno had shuffled his feet and looked uncomfortable; Artelda had apparently not appreciated the gravity of the situation.

Nolofinwë had patiently explained that there was no 'situation' - they were merely living in troubled times -, so Lalwen had been obliged to scream at him and run away. As she was slamming the door, he had asked her where she was going. When she told him, he had quietly raised his eyebrows, saying:

"What do you hope to escape? Intelligent society?"

.~.~.~.~.

Nerwendë Artanis was making her way along the Tirion- Alqualondë road. This had once been beautifully paved by highly skilled Noldorin craftsmen; she noticed with some distaste, however, that weeds had been allowed to encroach onto it in several places. Also the dark undergrowth beneath the trees growing to the west was disturbingly wild. As the road wound its way out of the Calacyria and into the shadows and half-light of northern Eldamar, it seemed to be less and less the handiwork of civilised beings and more and more to resemble a wild track leading to nowhere by way of the Middle-earth.

The vegetation on the other side was less thick, parting here and there to allow Artanis a brief glimpse of the sea. The trees themselves were common species. Even in semi-darkness, Artanis easily recognised most of them merely from the configurations of their branches. She could have identified every one of the rest if she had dismounted and examined them closely. So certain was she of her ability to do this that she did not in fact make the attempt.

Artanis was bored. She had existed in a state of almost continual boredom ever since returning to Tirion from the house of Yavanna in 1472. It was not that she had not considered going back there, yet she had felt strongly that to do so would be to pile mistake upon mistake. Her first error had been in returning to Tirion rather than moving on to somewhere else. She could not under any circumstances have remained with Yavanna, any more than she could return to her now. That interval was irrevocably over.

Yavanna had given this apt pupil every scrap of knowledge that her mind, constricted as it was by the necessities of time and space, could hold. Artanis knew the secret of the dragonfly's flight and the growth of the new leaves in spring; she understood the hidden life of the rocks in the heart of Arda. Artanis knew why the blackbird sang.

And what did she do with this great and fearful accumulation of knowledge? She took it to Tirion! To Tirion, where her grandparents lived on the stale memories of their love; where her poor benighted little mother believed herself happy on a steady diet of garden parties and idle gossip and  _embroidery_. Artanis' vague but long-felt idea of herself as a tremendously important and significant being revolted against the very thought of Tirion.

It was many Years since Nerwendë Artanis had first conceived of her life as following a script. By this she meant, not the Music of the Ainur, although of course she knew all about that, but some special destiny of her own. It was of course up to her alone to realize this by fulfilling the potential of her nature to the best of her ability. Sometimes she thought of it in this way: just as the foal is born knowing by instinct how to run, so Artanis had been born with the knowledge of how to achieve greatness. It was instinct that had told her when to take up her education in Valinor and likewise when to leave there. On this particular Day, she had woken extremely early and in the clear knowledge that the time had come to take her destiny to Alqualondë.


	35. A Flash of Flame

'Then as a flash of flame he drew his sword.'

JRR Tolkien, 'Morgoth's Ring'

.~.~.~.~.

1490

There is no doubt, vehemently as Fëanáro or Nolofinwë would have denied it, that much of the unrest of the children of Finwë in these last Years had its origin in rumour and gossip circulating among the 'lower' strata of society. Equally, there is no doubt that the disturbances in the royal family alarmed and confused their subjects, for the people of Tirion were not stupid. They saw the old rift between the elder sons of Finwë broaden until their children avoided each other for fear of falling in.

They watched as the king himself, palpably dejected and confused, retreated more and more into his palace. The people saw even the way the younger granddaughter ran away to Alqualondë and never come back; and they saw how her mother pined, poor dear!

(Eärwen was extremely popular with the public, having so much more beauty and innocent charm than either Nerdanel or Anairë.)

By the summer of 1490, Nolofinwë was not the only lord of the Noldor who had taught himself and his family how to make and use the old weapons of the Great March. Most of the others had no better idea than he what they would do with these secret armouries; only, there was a feeling in the city that something was coming: a battle, perhaps, in which the weapons of polished rhetoric would not suffice to protect their wives and children.

So they were prepared, the Noldor of Tirion, when the eldest son of Finwë, the brilliant one, the 'Spirit of Fire', first spoke out in public - as opposed to speaking indiscreetly, which he had often done - concerning his theory of the Valar and the Middle-earth. It was not in the Square of the King! Nor did he issue programmes. He simply took up his station in a corner of the Great Market and began to speak.

And how he spoke!

.~.~.~.~.

In the shining of Telperion Finwë had dreamt of his youngest granddaughter-by-marriage. It seemed to him that she walked weeping through the streets of Tirion and that as she walked her night-black hair began to grow and wind through the door of every house; only it was no longer hair, it was a Darkness and a confusion beyond the reach of starlight or Tree-light. Only Losselótë's white face shone amidst the gloom.

It was the Day of the council that Indis had called to 'address the issue' - why could none of these people ever once say what they meant? - of Fëanáro and Fëanáro's denunciations of the Valar. Oh, Finwë's name had been on the letters summoning every lord of his court and every adult member of his House. But Indis had caught him at a weak moment and forced him into it. It had been to her dictation that the letters had been written.

They were alone in the council chamber, Finwë and Indis; he wondered if there could really have been a time when he had found her habitual earliness endearing. Absorbed in their own anxieties, they did not speak a word to each other. It had been so very long since they had had a proper conversation together.

Really, this council of Indis had nothing to do with him. She could bring them to a decision of her own choosing just as well without him as otherwise. No doubt she would prefer to have Nolofinwë in the High King's seat!

Finwë had no defined opinions about Fëanáro's behaviour, only feelings. The first feeling was his absolute love for his firstborn son. Another was that he himself was being unfairly persecuted, blamed for what was nothing to do with him and forced to interfere in what was none of his business.

Opposite Indis' chair hung one of Míriel's ubiquitous tapestries, brilliant in colour and perfect in execution; but she neither saw it nor knew what it was. The knowledge that this meeting was called too late vibrated through her entire body and hung before her eyes in a black mist of impotence. With Fëanáro's public avowal of his strange beliefs, the end had begun. She had failed to prevent some dreadful event, still to come, yet inevitable, that now reared its black head upon the horizon.

This was not what one would call foresight, meaning a supernatural presentiment of the future. Indis had never been so gifted; her nature was too rational for that. In compensation, she had evolved to a high degree that talent to perceive the shape of the future in that of the present which is possessed by all intelligent minds to some degree. Perhaps all she was really doing was trying to preserve herself from the kind of horrible shock that had jolted the child with the golden curls out of her world of dreams in the Year 1146.

When Nolofinwë entered the council chamber, Indis surfaced from the mist to put on the face of a competent and calmly affectionate parent. But he did not look at her. He went and stood before Finwë, so that his mother could not see his face, and spoke:

"King and father, wilt thou not restrain the pride of our brother, Curufinwë, who is called the Spirit of Fire, all too truly? By what right does he speak for all our people, as were he king?"

And she wanted to silence him before he could speak more of these bitter and unnecessary words; and she wanted to tell him how utterly useless it all was. But her tongue froze in her mouth and her body was welded to her chair. Like a pair of statues they sat, the king and queen of the Noldor, before the fury of their son.

"Thou it was who long ago spoke before the Quendi, bidding them accept the guesting of the Mighty in Aman."

There were footsteps in the corridor; there was a hand on the door:

_Ah!_  Indis thought, almost complacently.  _That will be Fëanáro_...

And it was.

"Thou it was that led the Noldor upon the long road through the perilous Earth to the light of Eldamar," Nolofinwë concluded. "If this does not now repent thee, two sons at least thou hast to honour thy words!"

And of course she was not surprised to see Fëanáro bearing a sword. She was in that state where she could not have been surprised by anything. It would have seemed entirely natural for Fëanáro to come in breathing flames and wearing a crown of fire. And of course he was scorchingly angry, full of insults and threats. But it was rather good of Nolofinwë to ignore him altogether. Such a pity he did not realise - or did he? - that this was the _worst possible_ course of action.

It was only after they were gone that she realised the reality of the situation. And she wanted to run after them, and she wanted to cry out to them; but she could not.

She did not look at Finwë. The air was full of their shocked and guilty complicity.


	36. The Impassable Gulf

Artelda walked into Fëanáro's atrium with a carefully assumed carelessness, intended to demonstrate her cheerful contempt of such little things as parental disapproval or avuncular instability; for indeed it was nothing to do with her if Curufinwë Fëanáro was to be banished to the wilds of northern Valinor for threatening his brother with a sword before their father's house. Nothing at all. She was entirely a free spirit!

The atrium was strewn with various trunks and packages and loose items, stacked carelessly among Nerdanel's beautiful sculptures. Someone had left the front door open. Losselótë was weeping quietly to herself in a corner. She took no notice of the visitor.

Makalaurë's Ambalindë, frowning over a list in the passageway, regarded her cousin by marriage with a look of gentle puzzlement and offered her something to eat or drink, which Artelda declined with as much firmness as if accepting would bind her forever to this house of mourning.

She took the list and the offer as a manifestation of Ambalindë's new authority in the household, now that Nerdanel had left Fëanáro for her father's house. Apparently the final blow to their marriage had been Fëanáro's condemnation by Mandos himself. Nerdanel had always had a great reverence for the Valar.

.~.~.~.~.

"I've taken to drink," Lalwen remarked. She seemed to find this a pronouncement of general interest. Anairë could not agree with her.

"You have driven me to drink! You and him between you. Oh Aulë-"

"I should think it is up to you whether you take to drink or not."

"Look at you, sitting there - And are you actually  _pleased_? By Aulë, you are! You like to think of yourself as the queen, don't you? Don't you? I could tear your throat out, you - you - you!"

"I cannot understand what action of mine or Nolofinwë's it is that so distresses you, dear sister."

"Can't understand! Rubbish! My own brother banished is something to me, isn't he? My father reduced to a halfwitted wreck!"

"Fëanáro is banished through his own actions, Írien dear. And it is surely the King's own business if he chooses to accompany him into exile."

Lalwen abruptly stopped still in her pacing of the floor, threw back her beautiful head and howled like a wolf. She was dishevelled and frenzied and had indeed drunk rather a lot of wine since Fëanáro's trial. Anairë did not look up from her needlework.

" _Through his own actions_ \- Oh! Anairë, Anairë! You know as well as I do how he was provoked. I would like to attack Nolofinwë with a sword myself sometimes!"

"I'm sure you would."

"Oh, oh,  _oh_... Anairë, can you not understand that this is a catastrophe?"

"I do not see why I should be tormented in this manner for the crime of loving my husband. That is all I will say to you."

" _Love_! You call it love, do you? - Your snivelling indulgence of his every whim? You set another living creature on a pedestal and call it love! That is not love! You don't know, you don't know - I will tell you what love is, Anairë. When you can see every fault in your love's heart and you find the strength to go on loving them, when you scream at them, abuse them, risk losing their love to save them from themself -  _that_ is love, you bitch!"

Anairë smiled placidly over her embroidery.

.~.~.~.~.

Tyelkormo was in his bedchamber on the second floor. By the window he stood, so that the golden light came through and illumined every golden hair on his head. He shone like some being of a newer and a greater race. He shone like a child of the Maiar.

"Well!" said Artelda.

"Well!" he said too, grinning at her his most brilliant and thoughtless smile.

She sat down on the window sill and tried to think of something more to say. It was curiously hard to fall into their usual ironic banter.

"Well! I hear the hunting is very good in this Formenos place."

"So do I," he said; and this last stroke robbed Artelda of words altogether. She did not dare speak, for fear that she would find herself mentioning her father or his father or his mother or some other of those subjects which had suddenly become taboo. She did not dare speak, for fear that she would burst into tears. That would be worst of all. Tyelkormo despised all such weaknesses.

.~.~.~.~.

When Fëanáro was very small, Finwë had often come to Míriel's workroom to think about her. Later he had become too absorbed in being a father for such self-indulgence. Later still, Indis had come. By that time, this claustrophobically untidy space had become almost the stuff of dream for Finwë, as if it was not just behind the third door on a first-floor corridor; as if he could not have returned to it on any Day of his choosing.

Now it was Indis that was forgotten; and Míriel's room remained as it had always been, as Finwë found, when his stumbling footsteps led him there for the first time in more than three Ages.

But it was exactly the same! Hard, very hard, to believe that she would not appear, sitting there under the window. She would look up from her work with her strange unfocused little smile and that look in her eyes as if she was thinking about something quite different all the time he was kissing her. Surely it was impossible that she would not be there!

Through the window, he could see Indis standing among her white flowers. She was so still and white and small herself, in a dress of ivory satin, that the frame made her into an artistic composition.

It was with real surprise that he saw her; she was becoming to him in these last Days little more than a nebulous phenomenon beyond the circle of his own comprehension. They moved around the rooms like two discrete and isolated worlds, eating separately and sleeping separately and avoiding each other in the maze that was the palace of Tirion. It was beginning to seem as if she had never really existed at all.

There were very few things that could be taken for granted in this place. Only the feelings that went deeper than words, as his love for Indis never had. That is not to say that it was not real love, in its own way. It was merely the intellectual love of an cultured heart that knew what it ought to feel.

No, the time was past for relying on such things; so necessarily the one ripe fruit of decision that had dropped into the hand of his mind in Years - a fruit grown from the deeper-planted seed of his love for Fëanáro - must be incalculably precious. Indis ought to understand that!


	37. Unpleasant Conversation

1495

"Anyone would think Artanis didn't like Tirion!"

"Now, whyever would Artanis not like Tirion?"

"I don't know, dear. But - but - she does not seem to spend very much time here, does she? I mean - first Valinor, now Alqualondë!"

"You wanted her to study in the house of Yavanna. It was your idea."

"Yes; but I do not know if I properly considered what might come of it."

"What? What might come of it?"

"I don't know! But, Anairë, are there not some things that it is better not to know? Sometimes too much knowledge can make a person all - I don't know! - discontented. If they cannot find a way to put it to use. Don't you see?"

Anairë merely shook her head and smiled.

The occasion of this conversation was one of Artanis' increasingly rare appearances in Tirion, at her eldest brother's betrothal to the Vanya Amárië. Artanis' behaviour at this time had indeed been decidedly odd. Arriving at her father's house on the Day before the ceremony, she had failed - again! - to give her mother any logical description of her activities in Alqualondë; nor had she agreed to stay for a few Days after the feast.

There hung about her an unexplained atmosphere of haste and activity, most surprising to Eärwen, who remembered the Haven of Swans from her childhood as a place of sweet serenity where almost nothing ever happened: a place that she had tried to recreate in the space of her own home. Arafinwë, who had visited Artanis there several times, reported that she was always pursuing mysterious projects in the company of a young cousin, Eärwen's nephew Teleporno.

Anairë was pettishly annoyed by the sadness and anxiety that had woven their misty tendrils around her friend. Dear little Eärwen had so clearly been born to be happy. If she was unhappy, then something had gone wrong with the world. It was like a confirmation of Lalwen's constant sulks and refusal to accept Nolofinwë's authority as regent of Eldamar; of Findekáno's nervous depression, Artelda's new wildness and Indis' cool impenetrability. Could none of them see how much better a place to live in Tirion had become, now that Fëanáro and his most diehard followers were no longer in evidence?

Respectable women could once again walk the streets without hearing their husbands insulted. Servants of the Valar could rest, without fear of Fëanáro's crude rabble-rousing. And there was no denying, however fond one might be of him, that Anairë's father-in-law had of late been too absorbed in abstract questions to operate as much of an active ruler. Nolofinwë was far more dynamic.

The common people at least seemed to understand these things: Anairë was often surprised and gratified by spontaneous demonstrations of support. Only the other Day, a woman had called down the blessings of the Valar upon her in the street. Nolofinwë might not be much of a public speaker, but he was in face and thought a true son to Finwë Noldóran. Fëanáro was too much the child of his unaccountable little mother for public taste.

And yet Eärwen was sad.


	38. Civil War

Anairë would never have dreamed of relating her own troubles to Eärwen. That was not what Eärwen was  _for_. Eärwen was her dear little one to be cherished and protected from all the harshnesses of the world. Besides, the poor dear had the innocent self-absorbtion of a child and would never be interested in her friend's difficulties.

But the truth was that Anairë went home from her visits to Eärwen to a domestic battleground. It had all begun with Nolofinwë's elevation to the regency. He had wanted to move into the palace. Anairë had disagreed violently. Apart from all other considerations, she would hate to live in a house ruled by any other woman, let alone an unreactive metal of a woman like Indis. And Findis was becoming almost as bad.

When Nolofinwë had given in to her arguments, Anairë, overcome with relief, had vented her feelings by organising a thorough spring-clean of her own home. Her joy had lasted for exactly sixteen Days, at the end of which period she had discovered her husband's new plan.

Anairë reacted to his avowed intention of building them a new house, larger and nearer to the palace, with a thoroughly atavistic and irrational horror. It would not make much difference if they retained the old one, as he did suggest; she would still be confined, undoubtedly for most of the Year, to some strange territory.

But this was  _her_ place, which she had moulded over long Ages to the home of her own liking. Perhaps it would never be so beautiful as Eärwen's; perhaps her grown-up children would keep it always in a state of noisiness and untidiness; but she, Anairë, had herself in the first Days of her marriage put real thought and even actual physical labour to the furnishing of it. It was their wedding-present from Finwë. Turukáno had been born here. Even the memories of her many struggles with Lalwen - even those aspired to sweetness, when she thought of them being swept away.

Anairë's house was not only convenient for Eärwen and the Great Market. It was also her nest, her bastion of security, the place in which she ruled alone. Nolofinwë might have his study, but he would never really have presumed to limit Anairë's power over the running of the household. Lalwen might eclipse her in public life, but Lalwen had not the attention span for genuine work.  _She_  was only too glad to leave that sort of thing to her sister-in-law.

The idea of separation from this security filled Anairë with real anxiety. What would they do for servants? Anairë had gone to a great deal of trouble to find good servants and train them to follow her orders correctly. She hardly felt strong enough to perform the feat for a second time. True, they might take some or all of their staff with them, but even then, it would surely be necessary to take on some new servants in a larger house, not to mention the question of caretakers for the old one.

Lalwen's contribution to the argument was a suggestion that Anairë should remain in the old house, while Nolofinwë and Lalwen herself occupied the new. Anairë's reaction to this may be imagined; but it must be pointed out that Lalwen's intention was only half mocking. Some women would have accepted it as a solution, as it was not unusual among the Noldor for married couples to live apart, at least for some of the time, after the birth of their children. But then again, few couples were as cloyingly devoted as Nolofinwë and Anairë. And so the battle lines were drawn up.

The four children each had reasons to support Nolofinwë, even Turukáno, who had visions of inheriting the old house on the departure of his parents for the new. Findekáno and Artelda simply wanted to escape, especially Artelda, who, perhaps in imitation of her cousin Artanis, had taken to spending entire Days away from home. Arakáno, his father's favourite child, now developing an adventurous spirit of his own, was automatically on Nolofinwë's side.

(Not that Arakáno could reasonably called a child any longer. At forty-three, he had already fulfilled his early promise of tallness to such an extent that even Turukáno had to look up to talk to him. He had put on another spurt of growth during the last Year; goodness knew if his grandfather would even recognise him, when they met again.)

Lalwen was on no-one's side, really. She would once have supported her brother up to the hilt; but she had not yet forgiven him for the crime of being assaulted. Nonetheless, never having seen Nolofinwë and Anairë disagree about anything before, she found it fascinating to watch.

Itaril, for some reason, supported her grandmother. Presumably Nolofinwë's enterprise had gone against her rigid moral code in some way. There was never any knowing what would offend Itaril.


	39. A Letter

'"Thou art unjust to me in thy thought", said Finwë. "It is unlawful to have two wives, but one may love two women, each differently, and without diminishing one love by another. Love of Indis did not drive out love of Míriel; so now pity for Míriel doth not lessen my heart's care for Indis. But Indis parted from me without death. I had not seen her for many years, and when the Marrer smote me I was alone. She hath dear children to comfort her, and her love, I deem, is now most for [Fingolfin]. His father she may miss; but not the father of Fëanáro! But above all her heart now yearns for the halls of Ingwë and the peace of the Vanyar, far from the strife of the Noldor. Little comfort should I bring her, if I returned; and the lordship of the Noldor hath passed to my sons."'

JRR Tolkien, 'Morgoth's Ring'

.~.~.~.~.

_Indis Rilmo's daughter to Finwë Noldóran, hail! May you come under the protection of Manwë._

_You will naturally be surprised to receive a letter from me. You may be insulted by my not writing before, although, in fairness, I may say that you have sent no message to me. I write this in the hope of expressing the thoughts of my heart more clearly in words on a page than in speech, which may be misinterpreted or misremembered in the heat of passion. You would be doing me a great service if you would read this letter carefully and with some consideration. If, when you have done so, you have a shred of understanding for me, then be on Taniquetil at the Feast of First Fruits this Year. We can talk more of these things there._

_I love you. I have loved you since I was a child, I will love you until the end of time. A love such as this will forgive any crime, as I have long since forgiven those errors of judgement which may have been committed by you over the matter that has concluded in our separation. But to forgive is not to forget. I do not believe that I will ever be able to forget what I have suffered in this city, not only through you, nor only through Fëanáro, but because of the difference in spirit between my people and yours._

_I do not say that that difference is finally irreconcilable. It may be that two souls of greater wisdom and better mutual understanding than you and I might have found in it a strengthening of their union, where we have found only a source of discord. Or it may be that all marriages such as ours must finally be doomed._

_I no longer find any pleasure living in this place, for all my pleasure has always come from you. In your company I knew for more than two Ages a bliss such as no creature of Arda Marred can rightly deserve. It is proper that there should be a time of reckoning._

_When I say that all my pleasures have come from you, I seem to imply that I did not find pleasure in the house of Ingwë, whither I fled in those Years of your first marriage. This is correct. What I found instead was the gift of peace, most precious to me whose heart had felt the unutterable anguish of seeing he whom I loved bound to another. I cannot truthfully say that those Years were a time of happiness for me; they were a time of peace._

_I cannot find peace in Tirion. This house, for me, is bound up with the memories of my greatest sorrows and my Hours of greatest happiness, haunted, by you as well as by Míriel whom you loved. Why, then, do I linger here? It is because I am waiting for you._

_I wait for you to return; and I wait for that special resolution that only you can bring to me. You must know that I could never leave your home without knowing that I had your understanding. Indeed, I would hear your forgiveness in your own voice and see it in your eyes before I would abandon you._

_As I believe, these Years of solitude and reflection have brought me to a point where I can see myself clearly: clearly enough to say, without my eyes being unduly clouded by vanity or humility, that I have been a good wife and a good queen to you. I have given you the daughters whom you once so much desired, and to your people I have given two strong princes in Nolofinwë and Arafinwë. Whatever my fault was - and there was a fault - it was not in my conduct towards you._

_My error is yours: I have given too much love to one of the children of my body, at the expense of the others. It is a bitter crime that carries coiled within itself a bitterer punishment. So it is that I can forgive you, for my punishment is to watch the one whom I love most of all stand victorious over his own brother, and to know that I love him the more for every thing in him that is not of me. I see now more and more clearly how my love for Nolofinwë is nothing but another form of my boundless and eternal love for you._

_I do not mean to say that Nolofinwë has behaved especially wickedly towards Fëanáro. I believe and will continue to believe that Fëanáro has acted like an arrogant fool in every respect. All my Nolo has done to cause me this pain -_ but it is enough _\- has been to behave like the Noldo he is, born to glory and to take pride in conquest. I stood my ground through the battle, for your sake and his, but understand this: I cannot abide the peace that comes after victory and is no peace!_

_I have seen the Noldor and I have loved them in glory and in hatred, and now I desire only to see the land where disturbance does not come. I love you - I have loved you - I will love you and only you. Give me one word of understanding and I will carry my love with me to the silence of Taniquetil._


	40. The Feast of First Fruits

Artelda said to Findekáno: "I'm not disappointed, you know!"

Not knowing whether he himself were disappointed to see Fëanáro alone at the Feast of First Fruits, he truly envied her conviction.

Indis, on the other hand, made no secret of her grief, going over to Ingwë and resting her head against his shoulder. Nolofinwë was vaguely annoyed by this undignified gesture. He himself was not especially concerned by the absence of his father and nephews. Fëanáro had been very late; for some time he had dared to hope that the little exiled community at Formenos would be wholly unrepresented among the harvest celebrants. That had been cowardly of him, for such would have nullified the plan of action that he had formed, but when had he ever looked forward to seeing his half-brother?

As for the rest of the family, Turukáno was relieved not to encounter Curufinwë, whom he disliked. Elenwë was happy because he was and because the Feast was an opportunity for her to see her relations. She was a fair-haired Vanya, gifted with an incurable tendency to laughter and looking on the bright side. Joy bubbled up eternally from some deep well of her spirit.

Lalwen was cast into the depths of depression and retired behind a pillar to weep over her own lack of courage, which made it impossible for her to march up to Fëanáro and offer him the hand of friendship. Arakáno, distressed by these tangled emotions in his loved ones, wandered off to seek solace with his great-grandmother Ingië, who was holding court at the south end of Manwë's great hall.

Itaril was delighted, as was Anairë, who fell into a long conversation with Eärwen. It revolved mainly around Nolofinwë and His Virtues, a subject which had given her great pleasure over the Years and continued to do so now, at least until she became aware that her friend's attention had wavered. Eärwen's silver eyes were now focused on a point somewhere behind Anairë's shoulder.

"Yes, what is it?" she demanded with some irritation.

Eärwen blinked, slowly.

"I think it's Nolo," she said.

Sure enough, Nolofinwë was making his way toward the royal dais where Manwë and Varda were enthroned. They would have resembled nothing more than a great king and queen of the Eldar, if it had not been for the subtle radiance, almost a glow, that emanated from their bodies, which were themselves seemingly built on a slightly larger scale than those around them. It was impossible to mistake a Vala.

Nolofinwë bowed before Manwë and Varda, in the manner of a petitioner. His voice rang out through the hall.

"Great ones, only five Years have passed since the banishment of my brother, Curufinwë Fëanáro; but all of Tirion is diminished without the Noldóran and his firstborn son. I beg your permission to release my brother from his sentence before the due time."

Suddenly Anairë was conscious of another presence than Eärwen's at her side, of a golden gown and a mass of honey-coloured hair. Without turning, she emitted a malevolent hiss:

" _How did you persuade him to this?"_

But Lalwen, wordless with happiness, only shook her head; she had had no idea of Nolofinwë's intent. As Manwë inclined his head, summoning Fëanáro to come before him, his acquiescence increased her joy to undreamt-of levels. She would have liked to kiss Anairë.

.~.~.~.~.

Having, before the Valar and in the company of Fëanáro, to make some kind of public speech was for Nolofinwë the stuff of nightmares. Even as his half-brother approached, there was a part of him that did not quite believe that he was really going to do this thing. But then Fëanáro looked at him. And he was suddenly a rabbit transfixed by the glittering eyes of a snake.

"As I promised, so I do now."

Nolofinwë extended his hand to Fëanáro, who was silent with that silence of his that was more than silence, in the burning heart of which Nolofinwë would not have been surprised if Manwë and himself and all his own puny plans had turned out to be inside Fëanáro's mind.

"I release thee," he faltered, "and remember no grievance. Half-brother in blood, full brother in heart I will be."

Fëanáro had taken his hand.

Nolofinwë's tongue clove to his mouth. He wondered, with a sort of dreadful detachment, what foolish thing he was going to say next. Fëanáro would not speak before his brother had made himself ridiculous in the eyes of the world and of himself: this he knew from experience. But no new horror could be more unbearable than this fierce silence.

He resorted to his ancient tactic of blurting out the first thing that came into his head:

" _Thou shalt lead and I will follow!_ May no new grief divide us!"

"I hear thee," Fëanáro returned at last. "So be it!"

He did not release Nolofinwë's hand for several moments of agony.

.~.~.~.~.

As Lalwen flung her arms around her brother's neck, sobbing for joy against his shoulder; as the dazed look cleared from his eye, a pure child's voice pierced through the ordinary clamour and echoed from the dome of the hall. Beautiful little Meril, Ingwë's great-granddaughter, was singing a song of praise before Manwë.

Indis holds this last feast in memory as a shining jewel of movement and colour and sweet music. Even now, she can still recall every tiny detail of the clothes and the food and the pure light of Telperion, mingling in that place on the edge of Valinor with the softer gleam of the stars. She can see Malwë and Ilmarien, clad in matching dresses of silvery gauze, and envision the brooding half-amused look on Fëanáro's face as he passes close by her in the crowd.

After that strange scene, there was the oddest feeling of happiness abroad, as if Lalwen's innocent joy had somehow infected the rest of the company: even Indis. She can still taste the bubbles of it in her mouth. She can feel, too, that strange transmutation of joy to fear, as the shadows creep across the blue and white floor. She can hear and she will always hear the sweet voice of Meril, cracking and faltering and grinding to a final halt.


	41. Blood and Darkness

As Lalwen thought later, it seemed significant, 'just her luck', that the time of her greatest joy should be the moment when the light began to drain out of the world. At the time, of course, she did not think anything. One does not think at the moment of catastrophe. She was simply swept up into a general panic of flight, borne along in a tide of Eldarin flesh. And then she was outside and on the western slopes of Taniquetil. Looking down.

Darkness was not a phenomenon with which Lalwen was familiar. She had been nurtured and supported from before birth by a gentle amniotic fluid of soft light; so supported that she had sometimes forgotten its very presence. Once, as a child, she had accompanied Fëanáro and Nerdanel on one of their excursions into the twilight of northern Eldamar and hated it.

The Darkness that filled the plain of Valinor was not of that order. It was more like a pool of ink.

.~.~.~.~.

Indis turned up her face to look at the stars. She was standing among the other former festival-goers on the edge of the Ring of Doom. It was dark, but not with the Darkness that had so terrified poor Lalwen. That unclean thing had been carried off by the winds of Manwë. This was the simple starlit darkness of Cuiviénen, scarcely less terrifying to her children, but familiar, oh so familiar, to Indis herself. It was like falling back into a mother's arms. A child can never get away from her mother.

Findekáno was the first to connect the sound of running feet with his cousins. He would have recognised Maitimo's footfall anywhere. Even here beyond the end of the world he knew it; but Indis did not recognise the nine elves until the throng had parted before them and they stood in the Mahanaxar.

"Blood and darkness!" Maitimo cried out to Manwë. "Finwë the king is slain, and the Silmarils are gone!"

Indis felt the strangest urge to burst out laughing! For this was the most patent nonsense in the world. Finwë could not be slain; not while his wife and children lived. Did they not draw life from him alone?

Lalwen had burst into the most indescribably desperate sobs. Indis would have reached out, to comfort her child, only her limbs were no longer her own, had been possessed by a dreadful lightness. She must not inhale too deeply, for fear of flying away.

Ah, but it was possible after all, was it not?

And then Ingië's white dress and her warm body were there and Indis had tumbled somehow against the other woman and was weeping confusedly into that white and ghostly shoulder. No child can escape her mother.


	42. A Guiding Light

Somehow or other, led by nobody in particular, most of the Noldor, including Indis and her children, had straggled back to Tirion. One had to go somewhere. Indis and Findis, with Calatindil, Ilmarien and Laurefindë, who had attached themselves to them, had the palace entirely to themselves; or rather, had the dark and silent place that the palace had become entirely to themselves. The three women were in Indis' boudoir. Findis was quietly going around the room and lighting the candles that she had placed on every available surface.

"Fëanáro will turn up quite soon," Indis said. Her voice was eerily calm and matter-of-fact. Her face too was calm. It was as if, at some point during the last few Hours, a blanket of tranquillity had dropped over her to hide her grief.

"What d'you mean, Fëanáro will turn up?" This was Ilmarien.

"I mean he will turn up. Appear. In Tirion. After that, he will probably make some speeches in favour of a return to the Middle-earth. The people will follow him, because he will offer them something to hold on to, which is what they want just now. Nolofinwë will follow him."

"Really!"

"Really, Findis."

"Is prophecy another of your gifts, then, Mother dear? I had no idea!"

"No,  _hina_. I have merely made it my business to know the sons of Finwë. Come on!"

Indis opened the door and walked out into the corridor. Findis followed her, picking up a candle.

"Hey!" Ilmarien called. "Where are you going?"

"To the kitchens, to bake the  _coimas_ for the departing. Where else?"

Ilmarien heard the soft sound of their feet on the stairs. She put her hands to her head, wondering what to do next. She was afraid to follow Indis and Findis into the dark nether regions of the palace; but she would surely be more afraid, after they were quite out of hearing, to remain in this room where the little flames burned so quietly. She snatched up a candle of her own and walked after Findis' footfalls as fast as she possibly could without breaking into a run.

.~.~.~.~.

"Come away! Let the cowards keep this city. But by the blood of Finwë! unless I dote, if the cowards only remain, then grass will grow in the streets. Nay, rot, mildew, and toadstool."

Findekáno had heard Fëanáro's speeches before, but this was a piece of rhetoric like no other, polished until it reflected the light with blinding intensity, the dull old weapons of oratory reforged and given a new glow. At one point, Fëanáro had begun to juggle with lit torches. It was awful. It was terrible. It was tremendous.

This was the first time that many of the Noldor had heard a full exposition of Fëanáro's mysterious 'ideas' from his own lips. Even those who had once laughed at him _now_ listened with curiosity and more than curiosity, as they were sucked in by his burning eyes and fervent voice. Was not his vision a point of light in the darkness, whatever else it might or might not be?

But what exactly was his vision? What lay  _behind_ the rumours?

To the people, Fëanáro's great inversion of conventional history was most shocking in its simplicity. They knew of the Middle-earth as a dark place of war and nightmare. Fëanáro spoke of it as a fertile land and the true inheritance of the Eldar. In the history they had been taught, the Valar had intervened to rescue the Eruhíni from this place of horror. Fëanáro's Valar were jealous spirits who had diverted the course of their destiny.

Naturally, he spoke also of his burning desire to avenge Finwë and recover the Silmarilli from Melkor. This the Noldor understood as sons and craftsmen.

Fëanáro was standing in the lamplit circle by the palace doors, just clear of Aldarilion's shadow. Calatindil and Laurefindë stood listening on the palace verandah behind him. Most of Tirion was gathered around the edges of the square. The House of Nolofinwë and many of his political supporters were on the eastern side, the House of Arafinwë clustered together in the mouth of the Alley of Roses to the north.

Findekáno could see Fëanáro's sons, with Ambalindë and Losselótë, among the crowd to the left of their father. It was mildly surprising to observe that Losselótë in her porcelain perfection had not been broken during the preceding chaos. He did not look at Maitimo.

"Say farewell to bondage! But say farewell also to ease! Say farewell to the weak! Say farewell to your treasures - more still shall we make! Journey light. But bring with you your swords! For we will go further than Tauros, endure longer than Tulkas: we will never turn back from pursuit. After Moringotho to the ends of the earth! War he shall have and hatred undying. But when we have conquered and have regained the Silmarils that he stole, then behold! We, we alone, shall be the lords of the unsullied Light, and masters of the bliss and the beauty of Arda! No other race shall oust us! This oath I swear..."

But it was not he alone who swore. With horror, Findekáno saw the lanky form of Maitimo, laughing, leaping out of the shadows. Lalwen saw something else: she saw Curufinwë Atarinkë's little raven-haired Vanyarin wife clinging to his arm, her dark eyes lifted to his, her exquisite face fixed in a mask of mute appeal. He detached her, so gently, to join his father and brothers.

"Be he foe or friend, be he foul or clean,

brood of Moringotho or bright Vala,

Elda or Maia or Aftercomer,

Man yet unborn upon Middle-earth,

neither law, nor love, nor league of swords,

dread nor danger, not Doom itself,

shall defend him from Fëanáro, and Fëanáro's kin,

whoso hideth or hoardeth, or in hand taketh,

finding keepeth or afar casteth

a Silmaril. This swear we all: death we will deal him ere Day's ending,

woe unto world's end! Our word hear thou,

Eru Allfather! To the everlasting

Darkness doom us if our deed faileth.

On the holy mountain hear in witness

and our vow remember, Manwë and Varda!"

It was a fine show, certainly, but little Lalwen Finwë's daughter squeezed her eyes shut and covered her ears against the glitter of her nephews' swords and the throb of their voices. She knew what she was seeing, for upon her had been laid the appalling curse of clearsightedness. It was far from perfect; she had made enough attempts to stifle it with alcohol; she saw her own immediate family with such blinding clarity that the rest of the world was blurred and distorted for her. _But it was_   _there._

There was a disturbance in the crowd. Nolofinwë, propelled by sheer rage, had joined his brother in the spot of lamplight. It was not clear to him in what way he had effected this transference. A moment ago, he had been harmlessly listening; now, he was somehow in Fëanáro's Presence, which was like a live thing. It turned its attention upon him as Fëanáro did. Its eyes too were a brilliant grey so dark that they were almost black.

"Enough of this!" Nolofinwë heard himself crying. "Let none listen to this fool! He - speaks only folly!"

Curufinwë laughed softly.

Terror rose in a wave to cover Nolofinwë's head. It was suddenly enormously tempting to run off into the darkness, let Fëanáro laugh as he would! His eyes, roaming around the crowd as if looking for an escape, fell upon Lalwen's angry face.  _You fool!_ she mouthed.  _Leave it!_  Then he saw Anairë.

His wife's face was like an open flower, radiating all her love and pride and confidence in his superiority. Nolofinwë felt suddenly ready to defeat Melkor in single combat.

"My father speaks truly." Turukáno stepped into the circle. "You will live to regret this madness!"

"Indeed?" Fëanáro said. He turned towards Findekáno and Arakáno. "Are the House of Nolofinwë then all of one mind? What do you say, my nephews?"

Arakáno looked at him. His expression spoke of defiance; and yet, even decades later, Nolofinwë never worked out to his own satisfaction what the boy thought he was defying. Certainly he was about to go against his father's will, but there was also in his eyes a more direct challenge to Fëanáro, as if he dared his uncle to misinterpret his words.

He said: "I would avenge my grandfather!"

Findekáno said nothing. He could not, after that speech, bear to say anything in support of his father's sensibleness. That part of him which had loved Maitimo was awake and rampant.

"Few are your supporters,  _onóro_!"

"I support him," Findaráto said in his clear voice. He stepped forward to join Turukáno.

"Shame, that three of Finwë's children should shrink to avenge his murder! You are welcome to your toadstool inheritance!"

Nolofinwë moved slightly, as if breaking free from a trance.

"Do you name me a coward?"

"Even so, and with reason. Have you not always been a coward, a sneaking conspirator? To escape a fair debate, have you not plotted behind my back?"

"You lie!"

By Findekáno's side, Lalwen was sobbing brokenly.

"Somebody stop them! Oh, please, somebody stop them! They must be stopped..."

A hand touched her arm. The individual who stood beside her was tall and well-built, even for one of the Noldor. He wore his golden hair quite short and had a rather winning habit of tousling it with his fingers. His face was pleasant and handsome, his eyes a light, pellucid grey.

"I will stop them," said Arafinwë. And he stepped out into the square.

"In the Hour of Finwë's death," he cried, "all disputes should be suspended in common grief. He was our father and we loved him; is not that enough? As to this other matter: there is no cowardice in love. I love this land, as did  _Atar Aranya_ , and wish not to leave it.

"Finwë wept to leave the starlit waters of Endórë. Part of his soul remained there, as he told me once - and yet he chose the western road. Why? For us! For his children, as yet unborn, he desired light. Who are we to gainsay him?"

"That light is passed now," Curufinwë sneered.

"Maybe so, but I trust in the Valar. A new light will be kindled."

"What new light?"

"How should I know any better than you, nephew? What mind, in the time of the Lamps' fall, could have foreseen the Trees? People of the Noldor, light may have dazzled the eyes of our fathers, but our minds are confused by darkness. The undoable may be done in a moment - but repentance lives for all eternity!"

"My grandfather speaks truly," Artaher agreed. "Leave this land now and there can be no return."

"I desire no return," Fëanáro hissed. "Stay then, stay with your brother to quake in the fear of regret!"

He would have said more, but Arafinwë cut him off.

"I am not one with Nolofinwë,  _onóro_ , for he will disagree with  _you_  on any point you choose to name. I speak because you are wrong."

"Our forefathers were dazzled by the light, as you yourself have said." Tyelkormo's bright hair was a golden spark in the torchlight. "Was not their judgement suspended in the light of the Trees? We have learned now from their mistakes. Let us return!"

"Nephew, you misunderstand me.  _Atar Aranya_ never regretted his choice. If we were in Cuiviénen now, do you imagine that we would be so rich or so comfortable and so learned?"

"What we had would be our own - not the corrupt gifts of the Valar, which we now see to be more ephemeral than the shape of water!" It was Fëanáro who answered, smiling a strange predatory smile. "This darkness is their true gift!"

There was a murmur of assent from the assembled Noldor.

"The shadows of Endórë will be darker. Let us  _think_  before we rush headlong -"

But Arafinwë's words were drowned out in the cries of the people: "Nay, let us be gone! Let us be gone!"


	43. Broken Glass

" _Oh_ , I have such a tearing headache!"

"Then you really should not drink," Findekáno observed mildly.

Lalwen crossed her forearms defensively around her brimming glass of wine. In the candlelight, it looked darker and thicker than it really was, like blood.

Nolofinwë, Anairë, Lalwen, Findekáno, Arakáno and Artelda were sitting around the large table in Nolofinwë's study. (Turukáno had gone to visit Laurefindë at the palace; Elenwë was upstairs in their room.) This table too had been transfigured by the uncertain light. It seemed much bigger and as if scored by the blades of knives.

Lalwen looked up and straight into Artelda's eyes. The younger woman was lounging in her chair, panther-like, as if trying to conceal the suppressed tension that ran through her body. Her eyes were blazing with a barely suppressed light.

"You are  _excited,_ " Lalwen said in a tone of pained accusation.

Artelda did not bestir herself to reply.

"Aren't you even the tiniest bit ashamed of yourself, to be excited,  _now_? You might as well be dancing on your grandfather's grave! Oh Artelda, my baby girl..."

Lalwen leaned forward on her elbows and looked around at the others. She was not especially surprised, although grieved beyond measure, to observe the same expression on the faces of Findekáno and Arakáno. She could not find the energy to condemn them, having wept more or less continuously for what would have been several Hours if the world had still been working. Her head felt as if a pulsing shard of evil glass had installed itself between her eyes. She would have liked to dig her fingers into the soft skin and rip out the offending spot.

Only on Anairë's face did she observe a faint shadow of her own terror and horror. The other woman was sitting very close to Nolofinwë, almost clinging to him as if for protection.

"Lalwen," Nolofinwë said suddenly, "you won't like what I am about to say, but I would ask you to consider this point: would you truly want us to remain here in fear and have Fëanáro carry off our people into Manwë knows what dangers? We would be condemned as cowards from every mouth. We would be cowards! The children of Finwë are not as private individuals, little sister. We have the great responsibility of continuing his unique care for those whom he led with such courage on the Great March."

Lalwen sat up straight and looked at her brother. As she did so, her even-coloured eyes, wider and more innocent than his, pierced his mask of dignity to perceive the flames that burned within him as well.

"No," she said. "No.  _No._ You hate bloody Fëanáro, for Aulë's sake!"

"All the more reason why I as the Noldóran cannot abandon my people to his madness. Nor can I unsay the words spoken before Manwë."

Lalwen leapt to her feet. Her shadow, twice as big as herself, covered the wall behind her. Her tangled hair fell in disarray around her wild-eyed face.

She screamed,  _"YOU ARE NOT THE NOLDÓRAN!"_

"Írien," Nolofinwë murmured soothingly.

"How dare you treat me like this? I was right about  _everything_! I told you not to annoy Fëanáro. Do you think him some kind of wild beast? Not even beasts attack without provocation!"

Unwisely, Lalwen took a hasty gulp of wine. The chilly liquid intensified the pain in her head tenfold.

Anairë, meanwhile, felt that she was falling off a precipice. She knew that the enormity of the betrayal, the magnitude of Nolofinwë's heartlessness, would not sink in for some time. She was numb just now and could not yet feel the full horror of the suggestion that she should  _leave Aman altogether_ for the lands of bewilderment and nightmare. She did not look forward to the moment of realisation.

In another quite separate part of her mind, Anairë had noted down the fact that Nolofinwë did not consider her worthy of placation. His efforts had been aimed entirely at Lalwen.

All this left no thinking space for the proprieties. It was quite automatically that Anairë said what she knew was right to say, and she heard her own voice as if from a vast distance.

"If this is how you feel, Írien, then do not come! I will accompany my lord, for he is right. No true king would abandon his subjects."

"Nolofinwë is always right, is he not? Dear Aulë! If you had ever questioned his judgement, you little bitch, Father might be alive now!"

"How do you make that out?" said Nolofinwë.

Lalwen evaded the question.

"Do either of you realise at all that I  _was right_? I said something terrible would come of you arguing with Fëanáro. Admit I was right there, go on, one of you admit it!"

"Your logic is erroneous."

"Erroneous!" Lalwen cried; and she hurled her glass of wine at the wall. It smashed. A terrible fountain of gore rose up like avenging justice to drench through her golden gown.

Lalwen laughed.


	44. The Sins of the Fathers

"...And then Mother said something placid. I don't know what."

"And then you came here."

"Yes."

Findaráto peered through the gloom of his father's atrium, attempting to make out Arakáno's face.

"You'll have to go back quite soon, you know. Your parents must be worrying about you."

"I suppose so. But can I stay here just for the moment?"

"Yes, yes, of course. Let me offer you a seat - if I can find one..." Findaráto added. He walked into a chair. "Oh, look, here's one! Do sit down. Let me bring you a glass of water."

When he came back, Arakáno, seated in the dangerous chair, was holding his head in his hands, as if to stop it from falling apart. A picture of misery, not even crying, he seemed to be entirely unaware of his cousin's presence.

For a moment, before obeying his chief impulse to offer comfort, Findaráto stood and looked at him. The image was deeply impressive to him. Later, when he remembered that time, it was, amidst his, Findaráto's, personal troubles, which were legion, this dim form of the child lost in the dark forest that came first to mind. He could not even have explained the significance of the half-seen tableau. It was a moment to bite deeply into the soul.

.~.~.~.~.

When Maitimo had set out into the darkness of Tirion, his aim had been to find his mother, whom he had caught sight of in the Square of the King during his father's great speech. He was still convinced that she must be somewhere in the city, but would now be perfectly contented with finding his way back to his starting point. To find Nerdanel too would simply be too much to expect. He was hopelessly lost in the maze that Tirion had become. Between the high walls of the Alley of Roses, light was no more than a distant memory. Maitimo was obliged to feel his way along.

He anticipated neither the sudden turn nor the fellow-traveller around it. They collided, heavily.

"Look where you're going!" the other person cried in a voice made sharp by fear. "Oh."

"Oh", Maitimo echoed, hollowly. It was Findekáno.

They looked at each other, or at least in each other's directions. Both longed to flee; but princes of the House of Finwë did not flee. The unspoken rules of polite society - rules of iron, rules strong enough to survive the end of a world - forbade that sort of thing.

Findekáno swallowed. He said, with a sort of desperate good cheer, "Hello! How are  _you_ these Days?"

"Very well!" Maitimo replied in kind. "What about you? How are you? How is - your mother?"

"She is in excellent health, thank you for asking!"

"Good!"

_If this goes on for much longer,_  Maitimo thought,  _I will comment on the terrible weather_.  _I will._   _I know I will._

He attempted to sidle past Findekáno, who reached out and seized his arm:

"Wait!"

Maitimo looked down at his cousin's hand as if it was something particularly unpleasant that had happened to settle on his sleeve.

"Yes?"

Findekáno had reached out in some desperate urge to communicate with this one who had once been closer than a brother to him; but he could not now think of anything to say.

He said, "I'm looking for my little brother, you know."

"Really? But how very interesting!" Maitimo returned. "Will you let go of my arm now?"


	45. Sister-Love

Anairë sat, amidst a heap of dresses, in her and Nolofinwë's bedchamber. She was supposed to be packing. Downstairs, Nolofinwë was comforting Lalwen for the misfortune of being a destructive brat. Artelda was looking for her spare bow. Apparently, the future of their venture depended upon Artelda finding her spare bow.

Anairë sighed and listlessly picked up a gown. It was orange brocade, rather showy for her taste. Probably it had been given to her by Lalwen. That is to say, it was probably one of Lalwen's cast-offs. Anairë could not tell; she had no memory of ever having seen the thing before. Perhaps memory loss was a symptom of despair.

There was a knock on the door, such a timid and hesitant knock that Anairë readily recognised the visitor.

"Come in!" she called, her spirits brightening somewhat.

Eärwen came in. What seemed to have happened to her spirits could not be described as brightening. By the light of Anairë's single lamp, she looked like a ghost.

Anairë stood up to kiss her.

"Hello, darling!"

"Hello. Am I - am I interrupting you?"

"Never that. Here, sit down on the bed. Would you like a drink?"

Eärwen sat down, buried her silver head in her white hands and began to sob quietly.

"My dear! What's the matter? Come, you can tell me, you can tell your old Anairë..."

Anairë sat down on the bed and put her arms around her friend.

"Darling, what is it?"

"Arafinwë... Aro wants to go to Middle-earth without me!"

Anairë sat quite still.

"But my dear, you can go anyway, surely, if you want to. Arafinwë would not force you to stay!"

Eärwen sobbed out a few unintelligible sentences.

"Hush, my love", Anairë said, rocking her, "you can tell me in a moment..."

Eärwen looked up and into her eyes.

"I don't know how to make myself go", she said clearly.  _"I am too afraid!"_

Then, with the intensity of a small burrowing mammal, as if to hide her shame from even the faint lamplight, she pressed her beautiful face into Anairë's shoulder. Her tears became more and more frenzied.

Anairë lightly stroked her friend's shoulders, crooning a little melody. Things were coming together in her head.

.~.~.~.~.

As Turukáno passed the door of the room that he shared with his wife, his right hand brushed one side of the doorframe. Automatically, he touched the other with his left, for symmetry.

"Better not let our darling Itarillë see you doing that - you know how it irritates her!"

Elenwë's lips curved sweetly into a smile. She was kneeling beside their bed, doing the same as Anairë, only more efficiently: putting clothes away in an open trunk.

Turukáno sat down beside her and leaned his head against her shoulder, for comfort.


	46. Of Inevitability

In the palace kitchen, Indis baked. The room was full of bread. In between long spells of idling by the window, Findis helped to put each batch of risen dough in one of the great ovens. Ilmarien had at first shared in this labour; but Laurefindë had come to take her away some time ago. Indis did everything else.

Although at least three Hours had passed in this way, neither felt remotely capable of sleep. Indis indeed found the motion of kneading the bread deeply soothing. She could knead until her mind had gone into her fingers and the dough's changing softness, until all thought had been lost in the rhythm.

She was still perfectly calm, as if, after the first shock of the Darkness, a consciousness of the hand of fate had fallen upon her. She had  _fallen in love_ with Finwë all those Years ago, had she not? Well, this was as if she had continued to fall - fallen right through the love and into this black hole at the bottom that had been waiting eternally for her. Indis had returned to the shadows of Cuiviénen, or they had come to her, as she had surely known always that they must.

"Mother? This is enough, wouldn't you say?"

Indis straightened with a sigh; her back ached abominably, as was observed by a small corner of her mind. Also, her damp hair was becoming a problem.

"I suppose so. What time is it?"

Such an easy, obvious little question!

"I don't know, how should I? I don't think it's any time, Mother."

Indis joined her daughter by the window and leaned her head against the glass. She could just make out the misty shapes of the trees in the Square of the Folkwell. There had been firs and birch-trees at Cuiviénen, for the children of the second generation to play amongst.

" _You_  won't leave me, will you,  _selde_?"

"No, Mother," Findis said; and she laughed. "What could there be for  _me_  in Endórë? No, we will go to Valinor together and meditate on the providence of Ilúvatar. I can turn over the pages of your books of lore for you."

" _Amma,"_  said a little voice. It was Lalwen, of course.

.~.~.~.~.

Indis sat in a chair by the hearth. Lalwen knelt on the floor beside her, weeping and wailing and sobbing into her mother's white festival dress. Findis had not moved from the window. She wore a studiedly enigmatic expression, tragically wasted since neither Indis nor Lalwen could have seen it to appreciate it, even if they had wanted to. But old habits die hard.

Lalwen, between sobs, was trying to explain to her mother the full horror of the scene that she had left behind her in her brother's house, but she did not have the words for it. Nolofinwë had been pleading with his wife, practically weeping. That was bad enough; but the peculiar quality of Anairë's resolveto remain in Eldamar would live with her sister-in-law in nightmares until the end of Arda.

"She was like a rock, a  _rock_! Oh, oh...  _And it is all my fault!"_

"Don't be  _ridiculous,_ " Findis said crisply. "I should say it was all Anairë's fault, not to mention Eärwen!"

" _Oh_ , how can you? - And now Nolofinwë will  _hate_ me! Oh!"

.~.~.~.~.

Findekáno never did find Arakáno. By the time he returned home, this was hardly the most salient of Nolofinwë's domestic problems. Most of the family had in fact forgotten that the boy was missing at all until Itaril remarked casually that 'someone ought to tell him'. She then set off to the house of Arafinwë to do so, not so much deducing Arakáno's presence there as assuming it.

(As well as being extremely clever, she was naturally unemotional, besides which, a grandmother is not the same as a mother.)

The possibility of such a dreadful eventuality had never occurred to Arakáno; what of that? Now that it had found lodging-space in his brain, Itaril's news had a dreadful ring of inevitability to it. Of course Anairë would stay. To what else had all the events of his short life been leading?


	47. Emotions Deeper than Words

Nolofinwë found the palace atrium empty, save for Ilmarien, who stood alone in the vast expanse of floor. Although there was no artificial light-source of any kind, his eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough to pick out the silver-gilt of her hair. She too was still wearing her festival gown of translucent gauze spangled with silver stars; but it was beginning to look a little crumpled and not so fresh as of yore. The same could be said of Ilmarien's lovely face. In her hands she held a lock of golden hair.

He did not see Findis, though she stood watching in the dusky gloom around the edge of the great room, invisible in one of her brown velvet dresses, dissolved into the shadows.

"Ilmar", Nolofinwë said, "have you seen my sister?"

She looked up at him.

"Which sister?"

"Írien."

"Perhaps. I cannot remember Do you know what your son has done?"

"Which son?"

Ilmarien continued to look at him, her eyes utterly devoid of that foolish delight over everything with which he was so familiar, until he knew which son.

"Oh! Turukáno - Laurefindë?"

She nodded. Nolofinwë put his arm around her.

It went without saying that Ilmarien Ingwë's daughter would not march with the Noldor to Endórë. She was a Vanya, a very  _Vanyarin_  Vanya, reverence for the Valar bred in so deeply that one could know her for an Age without knowing it, so rarely did she feel the need to make it manifest. Besides, both Ilmarien and Calatindil were creatures of the highest civilisation and culture. They would simply wither away in the Middle-earth.

.~.~.~.~.

Nolofinwë found Lalwen sitting in her old childhood bedroom, weeping quietly.

"Do you miss living here, Lalwendë? Perhaps you should never have left."

"Anairë?"

"She will not come", he said in an uncommunicative tone. For this grief he would never allow his sister to console him.

The worst horror of all was Anairë's refusal to be angry. She was not parting from him for any fault of his, as she explained. She merely had a duty to support their poor sister Eärwen. Could they not behave like rational beings about it? Come, let him kiss her farewell and have done with foolishness!

Lalwen said, "Do you hate me?"

"How could I hate you, little Laughing Maiden?"

His sister reached out and clasped his wrist with her small strong hand.

"You could still remain", she said in a low voice. "Everyone would understand. You would have  _her_."

"I beg you, do not speak of that. I have made up my mind."

"Please! I cannot bear to leave Tirion!"

"So it comes down to that, does it? But you need not come, Lalwen. You can stay here."

"Without you? Never!"

"Are you sure? I would not cause you sorrow."

"You have caused me sorrow."

"Then stay! Or perhaps you would prefer to travel with Fëanáro?"

It was hard to know whether this was sarcasm or a genuine suggestion. Lalwen suspected it was both.

"Fëanáro! What do I care for Fëanáro? Nolo, why do you think I make your life a misery? Why do you think I scream at you so much?"

"Because you hate me?"

"Because I  _adore_ you. You see, I have appointed myself your conscience, so as to make sure you live up to my idea of you. You can hardly leave your conscience behind, now can you?"

"Lalwen."

"Yes?"

"When I - You know I did not expect Manwë to let me release Fëanáro."

"Didn't you?"

"I did it to win myself favour in the eyes of the people. And with you."

"Did you?"

"Aren't you going to say anything? Go on, tell me what a worm I am!"

" _No!"_  Lalwen exclaimed, suddenly tightening her grip. "It is the deed that matters. Who cares why you thought you were doing it? You are wrong. I know you better than that. It is the deed that matters. And I love you for it."


	48. The City on the Shadowmere

The people stood back, leaving a respectful space around the two Quendi, dark-haired and gold, spotlit by the silver beam of the Mindon. The scene was dramatic and unreal as a hallucination.

"This staff carries with it the rule of Eldamar. Do you, Ilmarien Ingwë's daughter, accept it?"

"I do."

Nolofinwë handed over the sceptre. It was the same staff, now dark with age and embellished by a few jewels.

"Rule wisely, cousin!"

The new prince consort stood a few paces behind his wife. He was in a state of some confusion; the suggestion that Ilmarien should inherit the city that had once been her father's had followed too quickly for him upon his beloved only son's decision to follow Turukáno to the Middle-earth. Calatindil was more conscious of the dreamlike nature of the situation than anyone. Nonetheless, he was the first to notice the apparition of Fëanáro.

"By what right does my half-brother give away the rule of Tirion?"

Nolofinwë turned to look at his brother, who lounged lazily in the mouth of the Road of Pomps.

"The House of Finwë leave Eldamar. Is it not right that Ingwë's child should succeed them?"

"I do not question your choice, but your right to make it. Tirion lies only in the gift of the High King."

"I am the High King", Nolofinwë said, smiling slightly. It was good to say. He decided to say it again.

"I, Finwë Nolofinwë, am the Noldóran."

"Your name has grown!"

"I take my father's name in token of his rule."

Fëanáro's lip curled in scorn.

"Hear this fool, children of the Noldor! Was there ever such a jest? My brother's claim rests only upon a decree of the Valar; but of what force is that for those who have rejected them and seek to escape from their prison-land?"

An Hour ago, this little speech would have reduced Nolofinwë to a helpless silence. A Day ago, it would have incapacitated him altogether, left him bereft even of the ability to think. But something had happened to Nolofinwë. He felt it like a sea of energy rising in his body. Perhaps the change had some obscure psychological connection with Anairë's desertion; perhaps only now the full effects of the mutations in his world were becoming apparent. He did not want to analyse it too closely, in case it went away.  _But he knew how to answer Fëanáro._

"I have not rejected the Valar", he said, "nor their authority in all matters where it is just for them to use it. But if the Eldar were given free choice to leave Middle-earth and go to Aman, and accepted it because of the loveliness and bliss of that land, their free choice to leave it and return to Middle-earth, when it has become dark and desecrated, cannot be taken away."

All the Noldor of Tirion were listening to Nolofinwë's words: his words, coming out as he meant them to, reasonable and persuasive! He was talking freely, before so great an audience, to Fëanáro!

Floating on the rising tide of his own eloquence, he was suddenly able to understand why his half-brother loved this. It was a craft, like the forging of swords or the making of jewels; but words could be more sharp than steel and brighter than gems!

He decided to finish off with an insult.

"Moreover I have an errand in Middle-earth, the avenging of the blood of my father upon Moringotho, whom the Valar let loose among us. Fëanáro seeks first his stolen treasures."

Fëanáro laughed scornfully, but seemed confused, almost impressed. Perhaps he had never heard his brother speak with such coherence or at such length.

However he would have replied, he was interrupted by the opening of the palace doors. Indis stood in white at the top of the marble stairs. Behind her, Findis was a less tangible and a more mysterious figure. Both held baskets full of bread.

.~.~.~.~.

They moved through the crowd like silent ghosts, distributing the  _coimas_  among their kin. Indis came to Nolofinwë, Lalwen, Arafinwë and, for some reason, Itaril. Findis, who carried the larger basket, addressed the rest in order of age, beginning with Findekáno. And when almost all her stock of life-bread was gone, it was Findis who went up to Fëanáro and held the last loaf to him.

It was not a friendly gesture, nor a call for reconciliation; it was almost with violence that she thrust it at him. One would be inclined to suggest that she meant to shame him, but this being Findis, who can know? Perhaps she was prompted by some call of blood to blood so deep that she could not but obey, even if gracelessly. Or perhaps she only meant to take the centre of attention.

.~.~.~.~.

Now at last she wept, her tears pouring in a silent waterfall as they had not done since the Mahanaxar. Nonetheless, Indis stood upright and with dignity beneath the stars. This was the last service she could perform for her children: to be a white figure for them to look back upon, standing in plain view, here on the crown of the Mindon Eldaliéva.

The city of Tirion, uncorrupted by age, spread out at her feet. The snowy point of Taniquetil pierced the sky to the north. And though the plain of Valinor at her back was dark, this view seemed to Indis more beautiful in black and silver than ever before, looking upon it with the eyes of memory as she already did.

And so the stars burned on as the Noldor in their three hosts, three for the three sons of Finwë, streamed out of the eastern gate of Tirion. The first host was led by Fëanáro and his sons, who did not look back. The leaders of the second were Findekáno and Arakáno: Nolofinwë rode in the rear.

Anairë saw the glint of his white horse, for she too was watching from the Mindon, and thought,  _I could still go to him_.

She does not know, now, when an eternity of grey tomorrows stretch into a torment of regret, why she did not, why she did not run after him and follow him into the deepest of darknesses and cleave to him forever. She likes to hope that it was something more noble than pride or fear or anger that held her back; but she cannot be sure.

For 250 Years their hearts had beaten as one. And she had broken this for a stupid argument!

As her horse passed through the city gate, Lalwen looked back and up at the Mindon. Indis saw her hair flash golden in the light of someone's torch. She thought she saw, too, how Lalwen's mouth worked, once, as her gaze met her mother's in the moment before she turned those even-coloured eyes to the road.

This was Indis' last service to her children: to be a white figure for them to remember in strange lands, before she might rest.

**The End**


End file.
